Chapter 1: Karma
I moved with a heavy laziness through the hallway of the house, dragging my feet toward the kitchen with the sole purpose of silencing my midday hunger. As I walked in, the TV was already on. My mom, as usual, was hypnotized by one of those historical Asian dramas. You know the ones: where the protagonist is an "unreachable flower," pure and innocent, sent as a sacrifice to the castle of a tyrant king. The worst part isn't the plot, but the ending—the guy, who is a soulless war criminal, magically changes through the "power of love" and becomes a compassionate teddy bear just because the girl smiled at him.
I made a face of disgust that I tried to hide—because if she sees me, I’m getting scolded—and served myself a mountain of food. Rice, beans, and whatever else was there; a literal battleship on a single plate.
When I went up to my room looking for peace, my sister burst in like a whirlwind to annoy me, shoving her phone in my face. It was always the same: Chinese actors with unpronounceable names.
—Look at this! —she yelled, putting the screen millimeters from my nose—. I love this actor; he’s too beautiful!
—Good for you, menor —I humored her while chewing slowly—. He’s like the fifth one you "love" this week. Don’t you get tired?
She slapped my arm and swiped to the next image. It was photos of a pompous dress, full of lace and layers, apparently in an old Russian style. she was glowing, talking about fabrics and sewing because, according to her, she was going to cosplay the protagonist of her current series.
—And with what money are you going to do that? —I asked with my mouth full.
—Shut your mouth and don't be a hater —she replied without looking at me.
—I’m just telling the truth, though —I swallowed some rice, ignoring her glare.
At that moment, my phone vibrated. It was a message from a friend. I opened it with the caution of someone handling a NASA secret, because knowing him, whatever he sent could be a danger to my mental health.
Carlos: "Mano, it went down! I’m never doing it again without a condom, I swear... 1:38 PM"
My sister, who is a professional meddler, leaned over my shoulder and made a face of horror as she read. I pushed her away with a gentle shove and stood up to reply to that animal.
Me: "You seriously have mental problems, for real. 1:39 PM"
Carlos: "Menor, it’s just that naguevona... How do you think I’m going to get that girl pregnant? That girl's dad is going to kill me if I end up with a 'Sunday the seventh'. 1:40 PM"
Me: "I’m out, man. I gotta head to Joel’s house. 1:50 PM"
I looked at my sister, who was still sitting on my bed judging me with her eyes. I walked over, gave her a little tap on the head so she’d stop being so nosy, and left the house.
As soon as I crossed the gate, I felt a heavy arm wrapping around my shoulders. I turned abruptly. It was Mateo, my soul brother, with his usual laugh.
—You’re kind of a weirdo, aren't you? —I pushed him away with a slap, though deep down I was glad to see him—. Walk, they’re going to leave us behind.
We went straight to Joel's house. He was basically the classroom’s Wikipedia; if we didn't study with him, we’d definitely fail. He was waiting for us outside, with his "you guys are late" face. We greeted each other with the usual hand-clasp and stayed talking for a bit on the sidewalk. Just then, one of those typical neighborhood ladies passed by: she was walking in her nightgown in broad daylight, no bra, and with a bun so tight on her crown that her head looked like an egg about to burst.
—These kids nowadays don't even look like men anymore —the lady snapped at us, looking at us with contempt—. They carry that hair in the front looking like goats. Literal goats.
She left grumbling. I was stunned, looking at her from top to bottom while making a face of disbelief.
—Mmph... annoying old lady —I muttered under my breath.
—Don’t pay her any mind; she’s always looking for someone to bite —Mateo said, brushing it off.
I spent the whole afternoon burning my eyelashes (studying hard) with the boys. By the time I realized it, the sun had already set and the street was darker than a wolf's mouth. I said goodbye and started the walk back. I wasn't afraid to walk at night; you get used to the neighborhood noises and the shadows.
I was a few meters from my house when the sound of revving engines broke the silence. Some idiots doing "motorcycle stunts" flew past at full speed. I moved to the edge of the street so they wouldn't take me out, but it turned out the remedy was worse than the disease.
A car coming from the opposite direction, probably with a drunk driver who didn't see the bikes or me, hit me head-on. A loser's life has no rest, naguevona...
The impact was dry. I felt my bones protest before hitting the asphalt. The pain wasn't immediate; it was like an explosion of heat that ran through every nerve. My head throbbed as if it were about to burst, and I could feel the warm liquid—my blood—soaking the ground beneath me. I heard the distant screams of the neighborhood ladies, and then, my mom’s heart-wrenching scream as she ran out of the house.
In those eternal seconds, I remembered everything I wanted to do: the drawings I didn’t finish, the trips I didn’t take... but my body no longer responded. Everything turned black. The pain vanished, but I could still hear my mother’s laments. That hurt more than the hit: knowing that she would be the one carrying the weight of my death.
"I’m sorry...", was the last thing my consciousness whispered before fading away completely.
I woke up abruptly. The first thing I felt was a suffocating heat, especially on my back, as if a giant heat-patch had been stuck to me. I sat up with difficulty, trying to figure out which hospital had such dim lighting. But it wasn't a hospital.
I looked around the room and froze. It was huge, luxurious, with an old style that reminded me of the Victorian houses from the stories my sister read. There was no trace of the crash, I felt no fractures, but there was something... different.
I looked at my hands. They were small, delicate. I touched my chest and my heart almost jumped out of my mouth. I had breasts. I sat there stunned, breathing hard. I didn't want to keep exploring the rest of "the merchandise" because the shock was already too much. I was wearing a white silk nightgown, fine and expensive, the kind only the protagonists of my mom's novels wear.
—Coño... but what happened here then? —I blurted out with my usual voice, or so I thought, because it sounded much higher.
—Mikka! Get up immediately! —a woman burst into the room screaming as if the house were on fire.
I stood up mechanically, as if my muscles had their own memory and didn't ask me before moving. The woman who walked in looked like a "high-end," snobby lady, with a gaze that made you feel like an insect. She must have been the mother of this body’s owner.
Behind her, three more women entered. One started tightening a corset on me with a force that left me breathless. Another started combing my hair with such violence that I thought I’d be bald after the first tug. My sister used to say she was born in the wrong era... joda, she wouldn't have lasted a second without screaming.
I felt ridiculous, uncomfortable, and very annoyed with all this pageantry, but something told me that if I opened my mouth to protest with my "hood" manners, these women would hang me in the main square.
—Mikka, start behaving like a girl from a good family for once —one of them said with a strange accent, similar to Russian—. If you don't show off today, the foreign king won't want to receive you as his concubine.
The devil! Now it turns out I have to marry some guy. I’m a heterosexual man, I identify as such, and I like women—what kind of joke is this?
From the little I could gather in the middle of the chaos, I am now Mikka, daughter of the Governor of Pales (a place that looks like a magical version of Russia). My "dear" father is sending me abroad as a peace offering. I am basically a gift for a tyrant king so he’ll stop invading these lands.
I reincarnated in a historical fantasy. I’m the protagonist of one of those trashy novels my mom watched.
I was left alone for a moment, looking out the window at a landscape of snowy mountains and castles that looked like they were out of a dream... or a nightmare. Fate has a very dark sense of humor.
—The damn karma... —I whispered, seeing my reflection as a woman in the glass.
Though, thinking about it, in those stories the one sent always ends up being the favorite and calling the shots more than the King. Maybe, just maybe, being Mikka won't be so bad if I learn how to play my cards.
