Prologue

I am, or was, an 18-year-old guy from a small town named Epsom in England. Still, currently I ran away to London to avoid all social contracts, I don’t want to deal with all the things they going to force me to do in university, I talked to myself a lot mostly in inner monologue because I feel comfortable doing so, usually I will sit somewhere in class no one want to sit but in the same time I don’t want to sit in the front road near the teacher, because society is a scary place—and so obvious reason.

Yesterday, I still remember the moment before running away; I was taking my class as usual. Then, all of a sudden, a buddy approached me, just as always—the common way people see it: no one will pick a fight with this guy, nor snitch on him, they all know this buddy has some business with me, although letting him beat me isn’t a good option, and telling the teacher will make him beat me more like every time.

So I stabbed him with my knife, even though my school doesn’t allow any kind of knives. But I feel joy when I smash him with my foot, his teeth and jawbone getting loosened while I battle those students who want to stop me, using my fists and elbow, and so on.

Without regret or emotion, even if a million people die, it will never be something big for me—while hoping for them (even for my enemies) to find their way to paradise again, I know I wasn’t trapped all the time, and there will be an exit for all the mess I've done. But time is valuable because when it has passed, the love I put into it will go away, though if I refuse to die, I will still die in the public eye or with the literalism I live by—the all-literalism that gave me a weird taste in love, especially to my mind, will, and body. Not to be my protector in my time of need, it will be the guide for me to escape fear, the way I found some peace of mind by loving myself. I may not know which way I go in this dark world, but I will pray for this world to survive without me present. Seventeen years of my life isn't short; the moment when something hurt me has always repeated in my head since my childhood. I root for the day I will be a person everyone loves with a decent level of respect, or this life will pass by with truths and lies of a hundred mixed emotions.

*****

My mother, a beautiful Vietnamese woman named Lecy Reselintix, is currently in her 40s and, to my surprise, is a single mother of three children. She is a French teacher in a school and sometimes does Vietnamese tutoring because she can, but teaching is what most others see her doing in this neighborhood. At night, on the internet, she secretly is a star, although she has never told her children about it.

I’m the type of crazy child she made with another man who found out his mother's secret by invading her laptop with a USB drive. Back then, I was expecting to find some old file about her bank credit information or some early French test she made to sell to her students for some money, only to find her nude photos with her watermark on them and also some various sexy images.

Back then, the thought of blackmailing her wasn’t a choice in my mind, because being a not-so-good child didn’t mean I was courageous enough to do bad stuff to her, and I was shocked to find out what she had done to feed us all. With no regret nor disappointment, all I could think of back then was fear.

I was scared of that woman because of the way she raised her children. She loved me at first, but when my little sister was born, all her attention shifted to her.

I know she is a feminist because she has two sons. My little brother Liam is like a shadow behind my back, not to be forgotten but ignored by his mother. To be amazed by him, he knows things he never studied in school. My little brother, who is 6 years younger than I am, has learnt everything by just watching TV all day; although this behaviour of his doesn’t make any impact at school, I’m not here to blame his school or his behaviour for why he can’t ever be an excellent student, nor will either of us be as good as our middle sister.

My little sister, a blonde-haired, spoiled little girl, 2 years younger than me, is named Lilia. The way my mother spoils my sister is the main reason why I don’t have a good relationship with her. Being younger than me and going to the same school as I did is like a cheat code to her; everything she learnt in school has already been studied by me 2 years in advance, or she can search for the answer on the internet if my old notebook can’t provide what she needs.

I can’t blame her for being too reliant on others for that perfect score. Even though we share the same last name, no one has ever questioned me about my relationship with her at school; they simply bullied me for being bad. Despite being a big brother to an excellent student, I never had the opportunity to be in her position.

I didn’t have the early technology like she did. When she was 8, our mother gave her a smartphone for “safety” reasons. Her safety is more important than mine—the type of trust that hurts the soul of a 10-year-old boy.

My mother didn’t teach me how to study, nor how to cook, nor how to be a good boy, but my sister wears 11 different types of clothes every week, and I’m the one who washes them. There is a massive gap between me and my sister that I can’t say out loud, besides to our little brother.

For most of my life, I have never dared to ask someone to do me a favour; I seek freedom alone by myself without any help, although sometimes people have helped me without my asking.

There was an old friend of mine with his group who studied in London and went to Epsom to relax. The way we first met need not be investigated. Back in 2019, when we first moved to England, I was home alone while my mother and my little sister went somewhere for five days. There was food in the refrigerator, but as a 6-year-old, I was bound to mess things up and cry very loudly.

When I got lost going out to find my mother, a group of university students pulled over and “picked me up”; without them, I would have been gone for sure. They are the ones who showed me the outside world, and it was very illegal to show adult content to a minor at a time when the world was sensitive about children looking for content online.

*****

Looking back to the phone they gave me 6 years ago—since my mother took ages to buy me one—life became worthless after they were gone, but at least what they left is still accessible. Funny to see all the legacy news media went nuts over a person's death—also, "Hey, Mother!" "I'm on TV!" The City of London is so quiet during the night, with living expenses of more than £4,000 a month for a single person. Although some public places are free, like The Garden, they do not allow people to stay after closing. But lucky for me, there is no security guard around at this time, which must be because it's 2 AM right now, and I wake up at 3 AM every day.

Suddenly, while I was recalling some of my memories, the police stormed in and started yelling—very loudly, with a high tone. "Larry Reselentex, drop your gun and get down from the glass fence!"

I was looking down at the roof garden, not willing to follow their command and making a not-too-disappointed face after hearing what they said. “Actually, my last name is Resel—"

"Drop your gun down!" "Get down from the glass fence!" They interrupted me.

Yes, they won’t listen; as always, I don’t feel disappointed because they’re doing their job—that is, to arrest me, Larry "Reselentex." The goal is to capture me, so no chit-chat around. I looked down at my hand, holding the gun. It is a gun that came without a case and forced me to carry it around in my jacket, so I aimed it down at the security guard's corpse far below the building.

I know my bullets aren’t going to hit the corpse directly; it’s just going to be a low-effort hipfiring, so "Bang!" I pulled the trigger.

The police panicked. "Put the gun down!" "Hands in the air, right now!" As they were screaming, I slowly and carefully turned around to look at them.

Looking at them while standing on the glass fence, although I didn’t look directly at them, I could see there were three of them: authorised firearms officers of the UK. Armed with a rifle, like every other armed police officer I encountered. Also with a pistol on the left leg, magazines on the right leg, and a taser on the chest. I have been tased by their taser before, so I know it's best to threaten me with a gun over a taser, or else I'll fall off the glass fence. Well, it does look like I wanted to jump off the fence by myself.

As the second before a minute went by, I said, “Okay, okay.” I surrender.” With a smirk on my face, both hands up while my right hand still held the gun.

All three officers aimed at the gun I held, and one police officer said, “Drop your gun.” To which I replied, "Come here and do it!"

The officer who asked stepped up to approach me while the other two had their full attention on my hand. They came slowly but carefully hid their hand in the blind spot of the rifle to get their hand quickly at the taser and disarm me, and I saw that. No one held their gun in their right hand and aimed it at their left eye. They tried to lie to an 18-year-old with a gun with that dirty trick.

I thought about it, but I was wrong; they shot my right hand, which was holding the gun. The bullet from the rifle knocked the gun out of my hand, and the front officer pulled my right leg down with a taser, making me fall down on the floor.

Enduring the pain in my ass after that fall, all the officers there were stacking up on me, locking my hands, and putting my face down; one said, “We could have done this the easy way, but you refused to." Yes, I was too careless when paying attention; I should have lowered my gun to avoid losing it. When it's near my body, they won’t dare to shoot, and I would be happy flipping myself down from the glass fence onto the ground.

Unlucky that they ruined my plan—although I’m the one to throw my own plan away—they won’t make me scared. The moment they succeed, neutralizing me is death, but that’s the way I am: a high-explosive grenade inside my jacket tied up to a string that got pulled off by them; at least I gave them that.

"Target has been neutralized," one officer reported back to his walkie-talkie, which responded, “Good job, help is on the way; report back if the suspect acts unusually.”

I can feel the safety pin pop inside my chest; it's been a long time running, and there are still a few things I'm overcoming. Time to head home—again.

"Roger that." The officer replied while getting his handcuffs ready. I smirked and followed up with, "Target has exploded."

They ran away from me in fear while I was still lying down; I smiled, two eyes wide open, raised my hand up to the night sky, and exploded.

Everything went dark after that; my body felt heavier as usual, and my hands and feet felt numb while my head was having a storm. Then I woke up on my bed, breathing heavily as if my lungs weren't there, and feeling all kinds of pain.

Although my body is physically fine, my mind is still in shock after the explosion; the pain was real, and I know that, but I still have difficulty keeping myself calm. Every time I die, I will never be dead; I will live again in the future. Everything that hasn’t happened is the truth; I don’t know what has happened in the past, but if I ever die, I will wake up in the future again. And again, and again, and again—(vomit).