Chapter 1- Second Chance
I coughed, choking on my own life substance. I tried to breathe but nothing could enter my lungs, as they were already full of blood.
I was scared.
Not of what was to come, but what I was not able to leave behind. I tried to move my body, but I could barely manage a silent tear. My murderer's sadistic face came into view.
"Fuck you." I croaked.
Thinking back...
It's quite funny how I described my voice as croaking. Because that is exactly what I did. I croaked. I died. A fucking bullet wound to the chest. That's what did me in. My laugh echoed in my head. And thus my eyes closed and I nervously gave into death, after all, I was sure I was going to end up in the deepest and darkest part of Hell. But then again, when is life ever simple?
Because moments later, I found myself in death's office.
"What is your biggest fear?" I got up and spat on her desk.
"Fuck you." I walked towards the office door.
The lady sat straight dressed in her white blouse and black pencil skirt, with a clip board in her hands. Her wooden desk was neat, with only a few pens on the desk and a cup of a black liquid which somehow smelled like coffee.
"Shelby. Calm down and I'll explain myself." She sighed. I lifted up my middle finger and tried the door. It didn't open. I kicked at it as my famous temper getting the best of me.
"No! I'm fucking dead. Why don't you just send me to hell?" I growled. "I already know I'm going there!"
I had been a child that grew up in a wrong environment.
I had tried, honestly I did, to be a good person. I mean I was educated in elementary, all 5 years of high school, 2 years of Collage, and 4 years in Ancient Mediterranean studies receiving my Bachelor's. I donated extra money to charity, opened doors for strangers, gave blood when I could, helped old ladies cross the road… I did nice things.
But my undoing had been my temper. I needed an outlet. But that outlet wasn't very… legit? I was naturally a stressed person. Always looking over my shoulder, and paranoid. That caused me to get into fights. Just like the one that got me killed.
"Because there is no such thing." I stopped and looked at her stupidly. "There is no burning pits, there is no jailing, no chains, no pain." She rolled her eyes before pointing at the chair again.
"Sit down, I'm here to evaluate you."
I snorted in disbelief.
"That's funny. I'm sure I'll just fail whatever bullshit you pull on me."
Just like everything else.
My attention wavered back to the door and I rattled it as if it would all of a sudden become unlocked.
"It says here that you fear dying unnoticed the most." She read. I saw red and turned back to her.
"Fuck off!" I roared.
"Ah no I'm sorry, you fear not being acknowledged in all sense of the word." She hummed. She twisted her red pen around her thumb. I had always been jealous of how people could do that.
"FUCK YOU!"
"Don't you know any other insults?" I growled at her from behind the chair, my nails making marks in the wood.
She placed the clip board on the desk and stared at me.
"To successfully 'pass on' one has to achieve their dream or to accept that it will never happen and be okay with that..." She told me trailing off. I looked at her puzzled.
"What are you talking about?" I told her.
"I like you." She told me. I was quite surprised. "I really like you, so I'm going to give you another shot."
"What?" I asked. I was very confused. "Sorry! I don't think I swing that way."
"I'm giving you another life." Her stamper came out of nowhere and she positioned it above my paper.
"Wait! What do you mean another life." I said. She looked up and smirked.
"You are a survivor, so I don't want to see you back here for at least another 25 years." The stamp fell and I plunged back into darkness without any warning with only her voice trailing after me. "It is the least I can do for you."
And so I stayed in that darkness for what felt like eternity. I was confused for most of it. But soon enough I actually started to use that time wisely.
I did some thinking, and quickly came to the conclusion that there was no getting out of this. I had to accept it, and deal with it as it came. And so the first thing I did was face my old life.
I was born as the second of two children. I was also the only female.
Yes, I'm a girl.
Our mother have no motherly virtue. She would watch as my older brother picked on me. It was at the point where she laughed at me the first time my brother made me trip down the stairs. I had broken my arm… as well as his. She laughed after my brother called me a bitch.
She was no real mother. He was her favorite so she never punished him. I hated him too.
Now my father. That was one of the people I had adored in my life. He worked his ass off to support us. He was a mechanic at the airport. He worked midnights, starting at 7:00pm and ending at 5:00am. That was his regular shift. Most of the time he would work overtime finally getting home around 10:00am sometimes even 1:00pm. With that he would go to bed and start over again the next day. Now imaging trying to raise two kids at the same time.
My father was my inspiration. Working so hard, but never being acknowledged for his work. Never asking for recognition either. Through that he still found time to spend time with us. I could never forgive my mother for treating me nor the way she treated my father. She never had a job and when my father passed away, she started to live with my brother. My brother was a drug addict from an early age (when exactly? I didn't care enough to realize) and relied on his income of selling and buying drugs to support him and later my mother. He was actually a bright guy. Smart, but made the wrong decisions.
I don't mean that that everyone who smoked or that does drugs is an awful person. I mean who hasn't smoked a joint? But when you start abusing it and taking it to be able to function. That's when it becomes a problem. My brother couldn't eat so he smoked, wasn't awake until he did his first line of coke, wasn't alive until he injected his first shot of heroin. He needed it to function, as did my mother.
My heart tells me that they were failures. They weren't living, they were waiting for death.
In my books that meant they were the lowest of the low…but I couldn't help but laugh at that.
Because I was one too.
But in a different manner.
Fighting was my life. I remember my father being called into my primary school because I had gotten into a fight. He looked at me and I saw the 'again' passed through his mind. The councilor, bless her soul, told my father that maybe I had too much energy and should join a sport.
She never did specified what sport.
So my father took me to a MMA gym the next morning. He told me, "if you want to fight, fight in a controlled environment, and learn how to do it properly."
And that is where it all started. 15 years of MMA later and I'm dead. I tried my heart out, I knew my goal was to get into the UFC. To be like Ronda Rousey, Joanne Calderwood, Amanda Nunes, and most of all Joanna Jędrzejczyk. Because that is where people would watch me. It is where I would finally be respected.
I fought my first fight when I was 15. My second, two months later. I was a fighter. No matter how hard I was beaten down, I'd come back for one last hit, then another, and another.
And my father was my main supporter. No matter what time or when my match would take place, he was always there. He would take off work to come watch, he would work 16 hours the next day to be able to see me fight. But he would go with a smile, and he would brag about me to his coworkers. My mother and brother were too high at home. Not like they gave a shit. After eight years my mother finally asked why I had a black eye. She told me that I should be a real lady, to stop fighting and get a husband. I had just turned 18.
One of my happiest memories is when I preformed my first knock out at 16 years old. My father went crazy. Jumping up and down, screaming! I remember looking towards him as the ref held up my hand as he jumped a random person. Hugging them and pointing to me. I was so happy when I read 'that's my daughter' on his lips.
But all good things come to an end. He died when I was 16. He over worked himself. I had to find a way to pay my schooling and his burial on my own. Once again the other two didn't give a shit. That's why I hate addictions. You are so dependent on it after you start that you can't live without it. They were dependent on the Weed, the Heroin, the Purple Drank, the Meth. But I was addicted to fighting and training. It took over my life. I submerged myself in my training and school. To compensate I didn't sleep, this way I didn't have the nightmares. I started to smoke cigarettes once Father died. I lost my support, my common sense. So when 'That man' came into my life and offered me fame and money, I didn't refuse.
And thus I started to fight underground. Seven years later I was a veteran. I beat people an inch from death, sometimes to death, I killed dogs with my bare hands. I then took the dirty money and I paid for my father's funeral, my apartment and my education with it.
But was it really that bad? I had to survive… It's all I knew. I continued my professional fighting on the side and the two never intertwined. My coach probably guessed if the large bruises and teeth marks were an indication, but he didn't say anything. Probably because I saw the same scars on him.
I laughed all alone in the darkness. I held my head and let a tear fall down my face. I will be forgetting this anyway.
So why was I thinking of this?
It's because I don't want my next self to be like I was. Whatever karma would transfer over, I wanted there to be at least some good. And so I did the hardest thing possible.
I tried to forgive them. I forgave my mother and my brother for being idiots. I forgave my murderer for killing me, I forgave my best friend for abandoning me, I forgave my coach for not stopping me. I forgave That man for recruiting me. I forgave his fucked up son too. I forgave the dogs, no wait I didn't, because they were like me, trying to survive. It was the trainers and the owners of the dogs that I forgave. I forgave my father for dying on me.
And last but not least. The hardest thing I did. Was that I forgave myself. I forgave myself for being a failure. Because this time that 'me', that will be born, won't be this one. It was my second chance.
But forgiving everything didn't help much. I would forget it in time anyway. The moment I was born or the time when my earlier years would be wiped from my mind.
Nothing would cross over.
Just kidding.
Karma's a bitch.
-.-
Hey Everyone!
Sorry for not uploading any of my stories in a long time. Unfortunately life gets in the way of things. I will Be continuing Answers but i have decided that i will have to rework This is War.
So without further ado, I introduce you to my "New" story, Karma's a B.... I say "New" because i have been working on this for over a year and have 100 pages already written up. I'm actually planning on finishing this one.
So i will try to upload at least one time a week, If I haven't don't be shy to spam me, It might have slipped my mind.
At the moment I'm living the dream working once again on a dig site in Greece, doing Archaeological work with a university. Working hard creating links and hopefully opening up doors for me to do my Masters at that university.
Anyway, Love you all lots.
Comments are always welcome.
RavenMocker6
P.S. This story is purely fictional. I own Shelby/Reika, Everything else belongs to Masashi Kishimoto.