Prologue

I was always a dreamer.

It all started when I was a young boy, taking my first step into fantasy literature.

Whether it was science fiction, or grand fantasy, didn't really matter to me.

Whether the story was good or not, it didn't matter.

All the story had to have was a new world to explore, to live in, to immerse myself to a point where the lines between reality and fiction were blurred.

Not long after grasping the basics of storytelling, I started putting myself to sleep with stories of my own, me as a powerful hero, saving the damsel in distress, projected like onto the screen in my mind, often borrowing elements, characters and settings from the books I read. And not only books, I delved into comics, both Western and Eastern in origin, and just like every child, I enjoyed cartoons. The longer I did this, the more complex the stories were, the more I had evolved them, incorporating my own ideas. I was loyal to them, never moving on until I concluded the one I was working on. Unless of course I would make myself so powerful early into it, that I simply could not come up with another cosmic horror to beat that would give me hard time. I wish at that time I had knowledge of writing. You see father taught me to read, but he did not teach me to write at that age. Not that he didn't try. In my eyes, spending time writing was time lost that I could have spent daydreaming, coming up with more and more absurd scenarios. Maybe I could have made a good living of those stories.

Then I started going to school. I was a timid child, weird and quiet, but kind-hearted, willing to help out anyone. And as is the case, I got bullied for it. But I didn't allow it to go unpunished. I'd turn into a hero and fight, even if it meant coming home bruised and beaten up, but with a smile on my face, cause with each punch I managed to land, I felt I was growing more powerful.

Even when I learned to write I didn't write down my stories, other than one required from me for school or homework. And it was always grandiose, even managed to pick up a reward or two along the way. Sports was another thing I liked doing, and even as a weirdo, my life improved, I was not bullied as the years passed by, and even managed to have a lot of friends. Still, the alone time was something I always preferred, resulting in me often denying calls to hang out. Girls too interested me, but they also got shoved aside for my passion of daydreaming, indulging in video games, books and other forms of entertainment.

And as I grew into my teenage years I realized I am bored of life. Doctors called it depression, but I knew it wasn't. I never thought of suicide. I wasn't unhappy. I was just bored. Perhaps it was due to poverty, so I didn't get to experience many of the things other children did, so living in fantasy worlds was a sort of escape mechanism.

Over the years it evolved to even reading adult comics, thinking how even an ordinary store worker whose only purpose in a comic was to have his neighbours, three sisters, crush on him and have sex, trying to one up each other, had a more interesting life than me. Even though he was presented as a loser, with his large genital appendage being the only thing he had going for him. Maybe because it ended in a perfect romance, or maybe because all the girls were imagined as perfect women which with my looks were not really achievable goal.

It will pass I thought.

I was six when I read my first book.

I was twenty-six when I realized that it won't go away. The feeling of wanting to go on adventure, save my own damsel in distress, living in a world straight out of a book.

It hit me as I was doing my ordinary day to day job, with my pregnant future wife waiting for me at home.

I wanted to leave everything and go live one of the lives I read about or watched.

Yet, that thought was so stupid, even I recognized that, probably born of hate for the job and dull tasks I've been doing for two years.

Would I really be able to deal with not seeing my family, the woman I truly loved and who bore the fruit of that love?

And who's gonna guarantee that I won't just be thrown into a world and die to a first monster I encounter, or even worse, a human?

Silly as it was, it calmed me down and I chuckled to myself thinking that there was no harm in these thoughts. They were often morbid after all. I imagined my whole family getting killed, me becoming this cool, dark type, learning martial arts, seeking revenge. Standard action crime movie plot.

After all there was no magic in this world, not like any of it could come true.

But faith is a cruel mistress.

A young child, a second of mother's carelessness, incoming vehicle and a moment to react.