Prologue

I was a thirty-four-year-old man with no job and nowhere to live. I

was a nice guy, but I was on the heavy side, didn't have good looks going for

me, and was in the midst of regretting my entire life.

I'd only been homeless for about three hours. Before that, I'd been the

classic, stereotypical, long-time shut-in who wasn't doing anything with his

life. And then, all of a sudden, my parents died. Being the shut-in that I was, I

obviously didn't attend the funeral, or the family gathering thereafter.

It was quite the scene when they kicked me out of the house afterward.

My brash behavior around the house hadn't won anyone over. I was

the sort of guy who'd bang on the walls and floors to get people's attention

without leaving my room. On the day of the funeral, I was halfway through

jerking off, my body arched in the air, when my brothers and sisters barged

into my room in their mourning garb and delivered their letter formally

disowning me. When I ignored it, my younger brother smashed my computer

—which I valued more than myself—with a wooden bat. Meanwhile, my

older brother, the one with a black belt in karate, stormed over in a blind rage

and beat the crap out of me.

I just let it happen, sobbing uselessly all the while, hoping that would

be the end of it. But my siblings forced me out of the house with nothing but

the clothes on my back. I had no choice but to wander around town, nursing

the throbbing pain in my side. It felt like I had a broken rib.

The biting words they hurled at me as I left our house would ring in my

ears for the rest of my life. The things they said cut me to my very core. I was

completely, totally heartbroken.

What the hell had I even done wrong? All I did was skip out on our

parents' funeral so I could spank it to uncensored loli porn.

So, what in the world was I supposed to do now?

I knew the answer: look for a part- or full-time job, find myself a place to live, and buy some food. The question was how? I had no idea how to even

begin looking for a job.

Well, okay, I knew the basics. The first place I should check out was

an employment agency—except I seriously had been a complete shut-in for

over ten years, so I had no idea where any of those were. Also, I remembered

hearing that those agencies only handled the introductions to job

opportunities. You'd then have to take your résumé to the place with the job

on offer and sit for an interview.

And here I was, wearing a sweatshirt caked in a mixture of sweat,

grime, and my own blood. I was in no state for an interview. No one was

going to hire some weirdo who showed up looking like I did. Oh, I'd make an

impression, for sure, but I'd never land the job.

Moreover, I didn't know where they even sold résumé paper. At a

stationery shop? The convenience store? There were convenience stores

within walking distance, but I didn't have any money.

But what if I could take care of all that? With some luck, I could

borrow some money from a loan company or something, buy myself some

new clothes, and then purchase some résumé paper and something to write

with.

Then I remembered: You can't fill out a résumé if you don't have an

address or anywhere to live.

I was hosed. I finally realized that, despite having come this far, my

life was completely ruined.

It started to rain. "Ugh," I grumbled.

Summer was over, bringing with it the autumn chill. My worn-out,

years-old sweatshirt soaked up the cold rain, mercilessly robbing my body of

precious heat.

"If only I could go back and do it all over again," I muttered, the words

slipping unbidden from my mouth. I hadn't always been a garbage excuse for a human being. I was born

to a well-off family, the fourth of five children, with two older brothers, an

older sister, and a younger brother. Back in elementary school, everyone

always praised me for being smart for my age. I didn't have a knack for

academics, but I was good at video games and had an athletic bent. I got

along with folks. I was the heart of my class.

In junior high, I joined the computer club, pored over magazines, and

saved up my allowance to build my very own PC. My family, who didn't

know the first thing about computers, barely gave it a second thought.

It wasn't until high school—well, the last year of junior high, I suppose

—that my life got all messed up.

I spent so much time fixated on my computer that I neglected my

studies. In hindsight, that was probably what led to everything else.

I didn't think I needed to study in order to have a future. I thought it

was pointless. As a result, I wound up going to what was widely considered

the worst high school in the prefecture, where the lowest of the delinquents

went.

But even then, I figured I'd be fine. I could do anything I set my mind

to, after all. I wasn't in the same league as the rest of these idiots. Or so I

thought. There was an incident from back then that I still remembered. I was in

line to buy lunch from the school store when someone cut in front of me.

Being the morally upstanding young man I was, I gave him a piece of my

mind, getting all up in his face, striking an awkward, humorless, and self-

conscious pose.

But as my luck would have it, this guy wasn't just an upperclassman,

but one of the real nasty ones, vying to be the school's top dog. He and his

buddies pounded my face swollen and puffy, then hung me from the school

gate, buck naked, practically crucified for all to see.

They took a ton of pictures, which they circulated throughout the

school like it was some simple prank. My social standing among my

classmates plummeted to rock bottom overnight, leaving me with the

nickname Pencil Dick.

I stopped going to school for over a month, holing up in my room

instead. My father and older brothers saw the state I was in and told me to

keep my chin up and not to give up and other patronizing things like that.

I ignored it all.

It wasn't my fault. Who could bring themselves to go to school under

circumstances like mine? Nobody, that's who. So, no matter what anyone

said, I remained steadfastly holed up. All of the other kids in my class had

seen those pictures and were laughing at me. I was sure of it.

I didn't leave the house, but with my computer and my internet

connection, I was still able to kill plenty of time. I developed an interest in all

sorts of things thanks to the internet, and I did all sorts of things as well. I

constructed plastic model kits, tried my hand at painting figurines, and started

my own blog. My mother would give me as much money as I could cajole

out of her, almost like she was supporting me in all this.

Despite that, I gave up on all of these hobbies within a year. Anytime I

saw someone who was better at something than me, I'd lose all motivation.

To an outsider, it probably looked like I was just playing around and having

fun. In reality, I was locked inside my shell with nothing else to do during my

time alone.

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.