ALIEN BLUES! haikyuu

alien blues!

I'm gonna paint you a scenario, dear readers. Bear with me a little, i swear it's not gonna be suuuuper long.

Imagine this. You're returning home from work, something that started as a summer gig and ended up consuming way too much of your time. Like, really. A part-time job that ended up being a scam — so now you're working eight-hours long shifts (not to add the time it takes you to even hop on a bus to go to work), five days a week with almost to no weekend free and have been doing so for the past year and a half. All of this while being paid less than minimum wage.

And you might say, why? You're not even in your twenties, leave the job and get something better! Problem is, dearies, I (well, you. It's a scenario, remember?) have got a weak heart. The official version is that you love your co-workers way too much to leave them covering double shifts until the next victim falls for this scam of a job and can take your place — how can they live without your perfect self? They can't.

What really happens is you fell in love with the shop manager the moment you saw him and started working your ass off just so that you could get in his good graces. Which, it worked! Except he's a very loyal man with a very loyal girlfriend (who just so happens to be your boss) and you found out way too late.

But anyways, that's not the main point. Blah, blah, blah, we get it. Boo, your manager couldn't give a fuck about you and you're sad, is that it? Well, yes, but also no. Surprisingly. We were saying? Oh, yes! You're returning home from work. It's one in the morning, because obviously you're pretty manager leaves you with the closing shifts — it's because I trust you the most, he would say but honestly? Fuck that — and that's when it happens.

Pretty girls such as yourself should never stray alone, especially at nights, especially in fucked up neighborhoods such as yours. Your only consolation it's that it was swift and painless, well, mostly. You can't really imagine getting killed being painless, but also I don't want my dear readers to get too much into it. Anyways, it wasn't much of a show. Really. Some grand scene would have been at least a tiny bit more enjoyable, but you ended up dying just a few steps from your rundown apartment building, throat split open by what you at least hope was a clean blade and wallet missing.

In retrospect, the killer must be regretting it right now. Pay-day was at least a week away and you had the nasty habit of finishing your salary in the first two weeks of receiving it. Well, serves them right.

Ah. Where are you going? I know you must be oh so tired of me chit-chatting, but wait just a bit more! This is about to get interesting. Because, you see, you died. And you might think, what? Is this gonna turn into a religious essay about how you've always been faithful to God and were able to go to heaven, being the saint you were? No. Don't worry, we're not gonna talk about things as serious as religion and faith — we're not that type of people and this is not that type of story.

You died and then you weren't dead anymore.

Here, I said it. Take it how you want, really! At first, seeing as you looked the exact same as before and you woke up in your room, you thought woah — did I use drugs and forgot about it? But no, some things were still amiss. So, your second thought, obviously, was you somehow became a mutant and could finally act your very own Deadpool like story. Again, wrong.

Because see, what happened is seemingly simple. Maybe. You're not too sure, but certainly dead bodies can't teleport to whoever knows where, resuscitate and live a life that's completely different but again just the fucking same. So, no drugs, no Deadpool but just a funny joke. Yeah.

Real funny, waking up as a seventeen year old (and God, you had just survived high school. You were finally free) in a room that looked like yours, smelt like yours but in a world that — most certainly, was not yours. And you're sure of that, because there is a pretty boy staring at you as if you've marched right into his room and thrashed his posters in a fit of rage.

Which you did, but you thought it was your room and you had gotten rid of those posters years ago. It hurt your eyes just to see them.

Well. Anyway, now you're all caught up.

So yes, the pretty boy keeps staring at me as if I'm an alien and all that escapes my mouth, dear readers?

"Oopsie."