Ficorpio
Chapter 1
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First Edition
Him Next Door and Me
I was born again.
It wasn’t a long story. That day, I was coming home from working overtime when I happened to get a call from my mom urging me to get married. After a few perfunctory words, I hung up and found a man in a black baseball cap standing right in front of me.
A gut feeling told me something was wrong—especially after remembering the recent string of serial murders. I turned and ran.
The man was tall with long legs. He caught me as easily as if I were a chicken. I closed my eyes reflexively, but he leaned close to my ear and whispered in a strangely gentle voice:
“Hello, Lila.”
My eyes snapped open. I stared at the person in front of me for a long moment before it finally clicked.
“You—you—you—”
Unfortunately, I was killed before I could finish.
Well.
This incident teaches us: cherish life and stay away from overtime.
Right now, I was sitting in the living room watching
Crayon Shin-chan
on TV while listening to the sounds of a man yelling and hitting someone next door.
My mom was mopping the floor. She kicked my foot as she passed by and sighed.
I lifted my feet, totally engrossed in the cartoon, and sighed too.
The guy next door is a serial killer.
Yes, I know him. He was my elementary school desk mate.
He has a nice name: Owen.
It’s been so long I almost forgot.
Owen is about my age, but far less fortunate. His father was violent, abusive, and cruel. Last year, his mom couldn’t take it anymore and hanged herself. Rumor has it Owen was the one who found her body.
He often had bruises on his face and body. Because of that, his classmates avoided him. Back then, I just went along with the crowd. Even though I sat right next to him, I barely ever spoke to him.
Maybe that’s why he holds a grudge against me.
Thinking about what’s going to happen in a few years gives me a headache.
Chapter 2
After the episode ended, I grabbed my mom’s hand as she was wiping the table and said seriously, “Mom, let’s move.”
My mom said simply:
“Get out.”
See? Kids have no say in front of adults.
That didn’t work, so my only option was to keep my distance from Owen.
But in my past life, I already kept my distance. I never actively bullied him, and he still ended up the way he did. So that path is a dead end.
The last option—and the hardest—is to not let him hate me. In other words, become his friend.
But does a psychopath have that kind of awareness?
I frowned, lost in thought.
Just then, my mom told me to go buy soy sauce. I put on my little yellow duck jacket and obediently headed out.
When I was little, I was known around the neighborhood as the cutie. It was a bit of a reputation to live up to, but since everyone said it, I just had to accept it.
Well.
I went to the supermarket to buy soy sauce. The plump auntie pinched my cheeks like always. I saw a cream cake by the entrance and got a wicked idea. So I used the change my mom gave me to buy the cake.
As expected, even if I’m reborn, my nature is hard to change.
I was happily walking home with my little cake when I got stopped on the first floor.
It was the little psycho.
His face was bruised, and there was even blood at the corner of his mouth. When he glanced at the cream cake in my hand, the corners of his mouth curled up—exactly like the smile I saw before I died.
He said:
“Give it to me.”
I can’t handle this, oh my god!
Driven by past fear, my teeth were chattering. I wanted to kill him right then, but then I remembered I’d become a murderer too, so I finally calmed down.
Trembling, I handed him the cake. The smile on his face grew even brighter. After he took it, I ran away.
Then I ran back.
He was devouring the cake on the stairs, cream smeared around his mouth. I looked at the last untouched slice, swallowed, and finally said what I was really thinking.
“Can I… have a little taste?”
You can’t get beaten up and not even get a bite of cake.
Chapter 3
A foodie’s nature is hard to change—and it can be dangerous!
The little psycho still gave me the last slice.
There was a strawberry on top. I ate it carefully while he watched.
When I was done, he walked upstairs with me. When we reached my door, he threatened me viciously:
“Don’t tell your parents!”
I nodded rapidly.
Embarrassingly, the door opened right then.
My mom stuck her head out, looking like she was about to scold me, but then she saw the little psycho.
She looked at our seemingly friendly faces, bent down, and said kindly to him:
“How about coming to Auntie’s for dinner tonight? I’ll make something delicious!”
Who is this? Is this really my mom?
Once we were inside, my mom saw I’d spent the change. Her face slowly turned fierce. At the critical moment, I pulled over the confused little psycho and shouted:
“I bought the cake for Owen!”
The little psycho turned and looked at me in shock. Clearly, he hadn’t expected me to pin the blame on him.
I pinched him secretly, and he almost cried out. My mom then regained her gentle demeanor and said:
“Hehe, it’s okay, Owen. Don’t be afraid.”
He’s the psycho! What’s he afraid of? It’s your daughter who’s scared! Mom, look at your own kid, will you?!
Actually, my mom is a very kind person.
I remember in my past life, after she saw the neighbors often beating and scolding their kid, she secretly went to the homeowners’ association. Later, she wanted to bring the little psycho to our house, but because I threw a fit, she never brought it up again.
No wonder Owen hates me.
Back then, I really disliked him. Even though I never bullied him outright, my disgust was written all over my face. It was blatant emotional neglect.
I only remember these details now.
I always thought I had no beef with him, but I was always the indifferent bystander.
It was my fault.
Owen was happily eating the braised pork ribs my mom made when he suddenly choked. My mom quickly patted his back.
He’s the same age as me—seven years old this year.