Checkpoint ONE; XX3rd time

Fuck. I’m so close. Whatever, I’ll get him soon enough. Which checkpoint am I in? This ceiling, this smell of wood. It’s the first checkpoint. A secret between you readers and me: I’m more scared of this checkpoint than the fourth where I died.

My legs keep shaking. I’m a ghost! I don’t have to be afraid! But he’s walking towards me. My stepfather, Durian. When can I leave this checkpoint? I look at my digital watch. 23:49. Hah… Obviously.

My watch was a gift by my mother before she was married Durian. In this checkpoint, I think I’m… seven years old? Makes sense because the watch was given to me on my fifth birthday.

Sometimes, whenever I arrive at this checkpoint, I feel that Time is mocking me, reminding me that my suffering never stops. And I need to live through Durian’s abuse again, and again, and again…

Yes, I could’ve just gotten up and left, but every time his belt hits the seemingly empty room, I still feel the pain, and my blood still drips. Because I retain the body of a child, I also can’t force my way out of the locked room. I can only watch and bleed, as Durian laughs and beats.

“Please stop…”

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Checkpoint FOUR; XX4th time

It’s the checkpoint where I’ll die, but it’s infinitely better than what just happened.

I’ve finished my pancreatic cancer treatment and I’m now aimlessly walking around at the night. Honestly, the night view is beautiful. I guess the silver lining is that I’ll die in a good scenery.

Usually I’ll just go somewhere outside the hospital to look at the night sky before I suddenly bleed out, but this time I’ll stay close to Watermelon since I’m so close to discovering the identity of his buyer. It’s futile, because I have already investigated the Watermelon of this checkpoint VERY thoroughly, but still. I remember I stripped him naked once and went through his belongings to find nothing but a knife, not even a wallet. Nothing gives his identity away. Do you know how many tries it took me to finally find out about the Cabbage Bank account? I guess that’s a professional hitman for you. (Professionality of a hitman = how bald you are.)

Watermelon appeared. He’s bald this time. I go in closer to take a good look at his face. It’s a face devoid of emotions. Fuck you. You’re killing someone and you think nothing of it? I can’t believe I got killed by a guy like this. A guy like the fucking moai statue. Fuck you. I don’t deserve this. Do you know how successful I am? I own the land you thought you owned. If I so want, I can evict you in an instant, AND you’ll have to pay me back. No one says no to me. How dare you. I don’t deserve this.

Ptough! How do you like that? Ptough! Hahahaha! I fucking love how Watermelon doesn’t dodge my spit. He loves my saliva! Whoever paid you must also be some dog who’s evicted by me once! And guess what? I don’t even feel the slightest bit of sorry for you!

At 23:49, I died, laughing.

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Checkpoint ONE; XX5th time

Shit.

1 good rating = 1 less beating from Durian?