[ WP ] You 're a serial killer . You encounter a victim . As you attack , they scream `` Wait ! I 'm you ! '' You kill them . Suddenly , you 're in a white room . A man tells you that you must live your victim 's entire life . You wake up , crying . You have just been born . The man and his words are still in your head .

I never forgot those words. My childhood was a blur, and my teenage years were a stoned, hormonal haze, but I always remembered that white room and that cold man. 
 
 Like many other teenagers, I went through a nihilistic phase. Unlike them, I knew how I was doomed to die. For fun, I tried to `` screw destiny'' once or twice. It never worked. 
 
 The first time, I tried pills. I distinctly remember passing out with foam coming from my mouth. I even did my best to land so I would choke on my own vomit. The next thing I knew, I was awake and perfectly fine, lying in my bed like nothing had happened. The next time, I got a gun. I shot myself six times. Each time, even though it hurt, nothing permanent happened. I could n't make heads or tails of it, and nobody ever discovered my distinctly suicidal actions. 
 
 I figured I would enjoy life after that. I had a good thirty years ahead of me before I died by my own hand, so I decided to enrich myself the best I could. Money was no object. I invested in Apple, Google, Microsoft, and hundreds of other up-and-coming tech companies before they got big, and I wondered whether this new life was a punishment at all. I embraced hedonistic pleasures. Sex, drugs, gambling -- everything was in reach. Then I got bored. 
 
 Can you blame me? I was thrown into this life for killing myself -- or for killing a bunch of other people, I was never clear on that fact. I decided I might as well give myself a retroactive legacy, so I used the exact same M.O. as my last life. I shot people in the head with two bullets and drew a penis on whatever was left intact. Do n't judge. I'm a killer, not a poet. 
 
 I suppose turning back to killing was kind of a bad idea, but I could n't help it. I'd had a lifetime of practice. Then one day I ran into a man who sighed and said, `` Look, do n't do this. I'm you.'' 
 
 It was major deja vu, but I rolled with it. `` How was our life?'' I said. 
 
 `` F... It was fine. You want cliff notes?'' 
 
 I shot him three times. 
 
 It turns out that my older future self was significantly more well-connected than I'd thought. Apparently, `` I'' had connections in several high-up law enforcement agencies. The next few years of my life were not fun. I lost my assets. I lost my health. When I eventually escaped, I might as well have been a hobo, unrecognized as that lucky entrepreneur that had been featured as one of Time's 100 most influential. 
 
 I was sleeping on the streets when I was thrown into a van and knocked out. When I came to, I saw my old self. I looked into my eyes, and realized there was a certain hunger, a venom that even I despised. There was n't any other way for this to go, and there never had been. I had long been resigned to my fate, but I begged. Oh, I begged and cried. I shouted. `` Wait! I'm you!'' 
 
 And then I killed myself again. 
 
 *** 
 
 This is my first attempt at a writing prompt ( I think ). I'd really appreciate some critiques on what I could do better or anything that seemed well-done. Thanks ( and have mercy ).
