Chapter one: The End
Chapter summary: A shut-in dies and the story begins. Constructive feedback appreciated.
Disclaimer: I don't own Re:Zero.
"Woo, finally. I hit rank 100. Took long enough," the young man remarked unenthusiastically.
He was seated in a plush chair with a wide monitor stretched out before him. The room was compact and made smaller by clothing and trash strung about. It was superficially cluttered and he would clean it later, is what he told himself. There was a foulness to the room owing to the lack of fresh air, exacerbated by the hot summer night and the discarded food trays and beer cans. Were one to enter the space their nose would have wrinkled, a grimace would have surfaced, and their next words would have been soaked in disgust and contempt. Of course, none of it would happen in his lifetime.
Only after.
"And with that, I. Am. Done," he said to no one before he collected his rewards and left the game.
"Welp, I'm beat. And hungry," the shut-in mumbled before he stood up. The chair creaked at the removal of his weight. He headed toward the kitchen intent on a frozen dinner for the night before he turned around and went to the bathroom instead.
"Better wash up first," he decided. The cold water did little to rejuvenate him, but it did wash the lack of sleep from his eyes. After he dried his face the young man took note of his appearance for the first time in two weeks.
"Fuck."
To his dismay and resignation, a pudgy, round face covered in stubble looked back at him. Dull brown eyes with blackened bags gazed at him with unabashed disgust. The thick, rounded glasses he wore almost made him look comical. His nose and lips were large which lent further to the idea of his cartoonish appearance. He was dark-skinned, though it resembled a pale dark due to a lack of sunlight. He wore a black shirt and loose jeans in a vain attempt to mask his obese physique. In short, the man looked repulsive and he knew it.
He looked on for some time, the way an art critic might sneer at a directionless sculpture or a modern painting before he shrugged internally and left the room.
Ka-chunk.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
As the microwave sprang to life, the recluse leaned against the kitchen counter and pulled out his phone. He searched for one app in particular.
"Oh, there it is. Not sure why I always forget," he commented idly while opening it. It was a task manager app with only one task left on it. Hit rank 100 in the new season (Destiny 2). He tapped it and it disappeared. The checklist was named bluntly.
Shit to do before I kill myself
These tasks included noteworthy things such as: Defeat the Abyss Watchers in DS3, complete a dungeon in Destiny 2, get a job, graduate with a degree, and lose your virginity. He visibly cringed at the memory of his first time.
Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep!
The shut-in's reminiscing was thankfully interrupted. He peeled the film off from his meal and mixed it with a spoon. The familiar odor washed over his nostrils. It was a thick, artificially savory smell packed with an excess of sodium and fat. He didn't care, and grabbed a soda before he headed back to his room with his dinner. To his infinitesimally small merit, he had no need for liquid courage tonight.
"Not much for a last meal, but it'll do," the loner mused. The silence grew loud and it did him good to speak to himself, though not good enough.
The method he had chosen was simple. A revolver. He couldn't remember when or where he had gotten it but it was a good choice nonetheless. High stopping power, high caliber, high enough that there would be no chance of survival. He'd heard enough stories of people who had survived point-blank shots with other handguns. He wanted no risks, a promise that would be delivered via a clean shot to the temple. Simple.
The obese man ate through his meal with practiced ease. He had eaten this exact meal hundreds, if not thousands of times. He felt rather calm considering what he was about to do. He had planned everything. Written a short will paired with an equally short suicide note addressing his remaining family, which was just his brother. Ensured that what little assets he had would be moved to where they should. He had painstakingly confirmed every angle to his suicide, and wanted to eradicate any notion that this was emotional.
The man blinked and realized he had already finished his meal. Internally he chastised himself, though he knew it would change nothing. Had he been willing to live to the next day he would have done it again. He decided against picking up the empty dish.
It doesn't matter anymore.
That same reason is why he decided not to wash the dishes piling in the sink. The same reason he didn't bother to clean his room. Or answer his phone. Or go outside. Or live. It was the reason he was able to grab the revolver with a steady hand. It had only one bullet in the chamber because he would only need one. He put down his glasses and took a deep breath. He was steady. Steady. He slowly brought the revolver to his right temple, pressing into it. It felt cold, but an odd sense of calm came from it. As though this was what he was meant to do. He placed his finger on the trigger with greater reverence and care than he had extended toward his own life.
He did not have any last words. He had no final thoughts, nor did he apologize to the many people he had let down, nor did he panic at the last minute. There was nothing. The pitiful wretch squeezed the trigger.
Then he knew nothing.
Author's notes: I had this done ages ago, I just delayed it because I hated how the other two chapters turned out. Chapter 3 will actually be set in Re:Zero. Warning in advance that most of these chapters will likely be short. That's just how I prefer writing.
Update 5/24/23: I made some changes to the writing here. It follows the same direction and ends the same way, but I felt it needed polishing.