No. In retrospect, that was just another excuse. I probably would have been better off deciding I wanted to be a manga artist and posting a silly little web comic online, or deciding I wanted to be a light novel author and serializing stories, or something like that. There were plenty of people in circumstances like mine who did that sort of thing.
Those were the people I made fun of.
“This stuff is crap,” I’d snort derisively upon viewing their creations, acting like it was my place to be a critic when I hadn’t done anything myself.
I wanted to go back to school—ideally to grade school, or maybe junior high. Hell, even going back a year or two would be fine. If I had a little more time, I’d be able to do something. I might have half-assed everything I’d ever done, but I could pick up where I’d left off. If I really applied myself, I could be a pro at something, even if I didn’t wind up the best at it.
I sighed. Why hadn’t I ever bothered to achieve anything before now?
I’d had time. Even if that time was all spent shut in my room in front of the computer, there was plenty I could have done. Again, even if I wasn’t the best, I would have accomplished something by being halfway decent and applying myself.
Like manga or writing. Maybe video games or programming. Whichever the case, with the proper effort, I could have gotten results, and from there, I could have made money and—
No. It didn’t matter now. I hadn’t made the effort.
Even if I could go back to the past, I’d only trip up again, stopped in my tracks by some similar obstacle. I hadn’t made it through things that normal people managed to breeze through without thinking, and that’s why I was where I was now.
Suddenly, amidst the downpour, I heard people arguing. “Hm?” I muttered. Was someone having a fight? That wasn’t good. I didn’t want to get involved with that sort of thing. Even as I was thinking that, however, my feet kept carrying me in that direction.
“Look, you’re the one who—”
“No, you’re the one who—”
What I saw when I rounded the corner were three high schoolers in the midst of what was clearly a lovers’ quarrel. There were two boys and a girl, dressed in the now-vanishingly rare tsume-eri jackets and a sailor suit, respectively. The scene was almost like a battlefield, with one of the boys, an especially tall fellow, in a verbal spat with the girl. The other boy had interposed himself between the two in an attempt to placate them, but his pleas were completely ignored.
Yeah, I’d been in situations like that myself.
This sight brought back older memories. Back in junior high, I had one childhood friend who was real cute. And when I say cute, I mean like fourth- or fifth-cutest in the class. She wore her hair very short, since she was on the track team. Of every ten people she passed by on the street, at least two or three would turn to look back at her. Also, there was this one anime I was super into at the time, so I thought the track team and short hair thing was cute. Even her less-attractive attributes were fine by me.
She lived nearby, so we were in the same class for a lot of grade school and junior high. All the way up to junior high, we often walked home together. We had plenty of chances to talk, but wound up arguing a lot. I did some regrettable things. To this day, I can get off three times in a row to the prompts “junior high,” “childhood friend,” and “track team.”
Come to think of it, I heard rumors she’d gotten married about seven years ago. And by “rumors,” I mean overhearing my siblings talking in the living room.
We certainly didn’t have a bad relationship. We’d known each other since we were little, so we were able to talk to each other pretty openly. I don’t think she ever had a thing for me, but if I’d studied harder and gotten into the same high school she did, or if I’d joined the track team and gotten admission that way, it might have sent the right signals. Then, if I’d told her how I felt, maybe we might have wound up dating.
Anyway, we’d get into fights on the way home, just like these three kids here. Or, if things went well, we’d hook up and do naughty things in some abandoned classroom after school.
(Shit, this sounds like the plot of some adult game I must’ve played.)
And then, I noticed something: There was a truck speeding right toward the group of three students. The driver was slumped over, asleep at the wheel.
The kids hadn’t noticed yet.
“Ah, h-hey, look…look out!” I shouted—or tried to, anyway. I’d barely spoken aloud in over a decade, and my already-weak vocal cords had further tightened due to the pain in my ribs and the chill of the rain. All I could muster was a pathetic, wavering squeak that was lost in the din of the downpour.
I knew I had to help them; at the same time, I didn’t know how. I knew that if I didn’t save them, five minutes later I’d wind up regretting it. Like, I was pretty sure seeing three teenagers splattered into paste by a truck moving at terrific speeds was something I’d regret.
Better to save them. I had to do something.
In all likelihood, I’d end up dead on the side of the road, but I figured that, if nothing else, having a bit of solace wouldn’t be so bad. I didn’t want to spend my final moments mired in regret.
I staggered as I started to run. Ten-plus years of barely moving made my legs slow to respond. For the first time in my life, I wished I’d exercised more. My busted ribs sent a startling jolt of pain through me, threatening to bring me to a halt. For the first time in my life, I also wished I’d gotten more calcium.
Even so, I ran. I was capable of running.
The boy who’d been yelling noticed the truck approaching and drew the girl close to him. The other boy had looked away and hadn’t spotted the truck yet. I grabbed him by the collar and yanked him behind me with all my might, then pushed him out of the vehicle’s path.
Good. Now that left the other two.
At that very instant, I saw the truck right before me. I’d simply tried to pull the first boy to safety, but instead, I’d bodily switched places with him, putting me in harm’s way. But that was unavoidable, and had nothing to do with the fact that I weighed over a hundred kilos; running at full speed, I’d simply stumbled a bit too far.
The instant before the truck made contact, a light blossomed behind me. Was I about to see my life flash before my eyes, like people said? It only lasted a moment, so I couldn’t tell. It was all so fast.
Maybe that’s what happens when your life is hollow and half-lived.
I was struck by a truck more than fifty times my weight and thrown against a concrete wall. “Hurgh!” The air was forced from my lungs, which were still spasming for oxygen in the wake of running flat out.
I couldn’t speak, but I wasn’t dead. My ample fat must have saved me.
Except the truck was still moving. It pinned me against the concrete, crushing me like a tomato, and then I was dead.