"Aaah, why are you still alive?"
I woke up again to say the same sentence.
It's always the same. The cold ceiling, the stiff pillow, the too-quiet room, and my lungs, stubbornly dragging in air like they've got something to prove.
My name is Arn. And no, I'm not cursed. Not officially. But when you wake up every morning wishing you hadn't, and the universe insists on disappointing you… it starts to feel personal.
I sat up, slowly, like an old man. My back cracked in protest—how dramatic. I rubbed my face, half-hoping to wipe away the layers of sleep and regret. No luck.
Outside my window, the sky looked grey, again. The kind of grey that doesn't promise rain or sun. Just existence. A lukewarm reality.
I glanced at the calendar. Another day marked with a red cross. I do that. I don't know why. Maybe I'm counting how many days I've failed to die. Or maybe I'm just bored.
Day 843.
Eight hundred and forty-three days since the last time I tried to be something more than... this.
Let me be clear: I'm not a hero. I'm not a villain either. I'm just incredibly consistent at being the disappointment people forget to mention. My teacher once called me "uniquely unremarkable." That stuck.
But something was off today. I felt it. A tension in the air, a crack in the routine.
I walked to the mirror. Same black hair, same tired green eyes, same scar under the left cheek that no one remembers giving me.
But my reflection… smiled.
I didn't.
A blink. The smile vanished. Just me again. Still useless, still awake.
"You're losing it, Arn," I muttered. "Perfect. Failing at sanity too."
I dressed in silence. Grey hoodie, black jeans, no expectations. I walked out into the street like a ghost in a city that forgot it had a soul.
People passed by. Faces blurred. Voices muffled. They had purpose. Jobs. Dreams. Probably.
Me? I was going to the library. Again.
Not to read. No. I go there to sit in the corner, behind the Philosophy section, where no one ever bothers to go. I stare at a single book on the shelf.
"On the Nature of Meaning."
I haven't opened it. I'm afraid it might tell me something I already know.
I took my usual seat. Same corner. Same flickering light above. I stared at the book again. And then—
A noise.
A soft thud. Like something falling.
I turned my head. Nothing there.
But then I noticed. The book. The one I never touched?
It was gone.
And in its place, a single white card. Blank, except for three words in the center:
"You were chosen."
I stared.
Me?
No.
This is a joke.
But the card was warm. Almost alive. I felt something pulse in my fingers as I held it.
And for the first time in 843 days, I felt… something.
A presence. A shift.
And a voice—sharp, dry, impossible—echoed inside my skull:
"Failure is your gift. Let's see what you do with it."
I dropped the card.
But it didn't fall.
It hovered.
My breath caught. My heartbeat raced. I looked around. No one noticed. As always.
Except this time, I wasn't alone.
From the shadows between the bookshelves, a figure stepped forward. Cloaked, faceless, tall.
And it spoke, calmly:
"Welcome, Lord of Failure."