It was supposed to be an honor.
It was presented as a reward.
A blessing because I lowered
myself for a man, for a god.
I was robbed of every color.
I was stripped of all my past.
Gone is the brown of my people.
the brown of my parents.
Now, when I look upon my reflection
in the watery sky, I see nothing
but the palest white. It was touted
as a reward. It was a blessing
to be cleansed and made new.
But, now, there is nothing
around me but the purest jade,
in the air, in the walls, on my body
What of this isolation is an honor?
What of this desolation is a reward?
The craters of my prison mirror
the porous hollows in my mind
since that day,
since that meal,
since that moment
when I wasn't allowed to die.
♡ღ‿ღ♡ ʕ•̫͡•ʕ*̫͡*ʕ•͓͡•ʔ-̫͡-ʕ•̫͡•ʔ*̫͡*ʔ-̫͡-ʔ ♡ღ‿ღ♡
The next thing I knew, I was falling. This wasn't a surprise.
What was a surprise, was the landing; my face hit a rough edge, and I bounced. Rolling, I came to a stop and stared. The first thing I noticed was that I was looking at a high, vaulted ceiling. This made no sense to me. The second thing I noticed was that I could feel what seemed to be carpet beneath my head and fingertips. This, also, made no sense.
Someone nearby gave a heart-rending cry. "Huizhong!" The voice sounded high, male, and young. But who was Huizhong? I was suddenly lifted into the air, and the surprise of it tore a shrill scream from my throat. But then I froze. I didn't sound like myself. I curiously made another sound. I sounded… like…
"I'm so sorry," sobbed the boy holding me. "I didn't mean to drop you!" He shushed me, cooing, even though I wasn't making any noise.
Was I… a baby?
I was being cradled in the arms of a young boy. He looked maybe ten, or perhaps twelve, with white skin and black hair. His eyes were a piercing blue and filled with worry. Gold rimmed glasses sat perched on his button nose. He looked familiar in that vague déjà vu kind of way. He shifted me in his arms so that I was resting against his shoulder as he bounced me and patted my back.
Why was I a baby?
Footsteps hurried into the room. "Clark!" A woman's voice.
"I'm sorry Aunty Lina!" The boy, Clark apparently, was still crying. "He was wriggling!" I was quickly plucked out of Clarks grip and held tightly to the soft woman's bosom. Gentle fingers ran through my hair and around the crown of my head, checking for lumps or bruises.
Is this rebirth? Reincarnation? As any Gen Z-er who is involved in the literary world, I've read my share of fanfiction and light novels. I'm familiar with transmigration and reincarnation. But the question stood, is this my world or isekai?
"He's not crying," she said, uncertainly. I gave a half-hearted sob. I don't think it was very convincing. "A'Zhong, what's wrong?" she lightly rocked me. There was an awkward moment of silence while I hung limply in her grasp, and she waited for some indication that I was unharmed. Hesitantly, I made a gurgling noise that I associated with babies. She looked down at me with a smile, and then frowned at Clark. Who was she? My mother? Then Clark would be my cousin, yes? I tried to smile at this woman, my new mother, and found it oddly difficult. I clumsily ran my tongue across my mouth, missing the feeling of having teeth. My mouth felt too wide, and my head felt too heavy. Like I was a frog or a Funko Pop. Or a Funko Pop of a frog.
The woman's lips twitched in response to my feeble attempt at a smile. "He seems fine," she sighed in relief. But then she sharply turned to face my cousin, and I reflexively grasped at what I belatedly realized was a boob. "Why were you carrying him?" She demanded. "You know you're not allowed to pick him up when an adult isn't in the room. You're too small!"
I was somewhat amused by this. On one hand, this boy was probably a middle schooler, and so I would assume that normally a child of his age would be large enough to comfortably hold an infant. But, then again, I was dropped. So, maybe New Mother had a point. "I'm sorry, Aunty Lina."
How old was I?
Moments later, I was placed in a rocking device. A button was pressed, and I could hear the sound of a small motor running. The seat began to smoothly rock forward and backward. Mother continued to scold Clark. I was able to get a better look at her. She appeared to be Chinese, perhaps mid-twenties at most. This would then lead to the obvious conclusion that I was Chinese, as well. Or perhaps half, considering that my probably-cousin was – at the very least – white passing. But, then again, Lina wasn't a typical Chinese name.
"Is he alright, Naling?" Okay, now that was a Chinese name. A young man with red hair poked his head into the room and smiled at me.
"He's fine, Roger," she said. "It must not have been a very bad fall."
I frowned at her. That fall hurt quite a bit, thank you! Roger smiled one final time before dipping back out of the room. Lina – Naling? – looked at Clark, hands on her hips. "You can play with him, but no more picking him up!" He bowed his head.
"Yes, Ma'am."
Then the two of us were alone once more. Clark kneeled down in front of my rocker. He gently stroked my head, and I couldn't help but feel a burst of affection for this child I didn't really know. "I'm sorry, Huizhong. I didn't mean it."
A bit of amusement rose in me, and I opened my mouth to say "Water under the bridge, dear cousin mine," because the thought of a baby suddenly speaking like an old British gentleman was funny to me. But all that came out was "Waable guh bruga ca brrrr." I frowned. "Waaaaaabla." In my attempt at speaking, drool spilled out of my clumsy lips and tracked down my chin. I grimaced. At least, I grimaced as much as my disobedient face would allow. With a patient smile, Clark lifted the hem of a bib hanging from my neck and wiped my face. "Thanks," I tried to say. But, of course, I failed to properly form the words.
At least now my little cousin was smiling again.
For the rest of the afternoon, Clark and I stayed in the living room. A children's show was playing on the television across the room, the audio a soft background noise. Clark would intermittently wave a stuffed animal or rattle or teething ring in front of my face. I didn't really know how to react, so I didn't beyond indulgent smiles.
I took in the room around me. The walls were paneled with dark wood. The furniture I could see looked plush, and the ceiling had a candelabra style light hanging. There were tall plants in vibrant, decorative pots. All of the end tables and the coffee table were polished to a gleaming shine. The TV was as wide as a small car. The whole place smelled like money. I smiled to myself. I was obviously reborn into a wealthy family with – thus far – loving parents.
As I had not been well off in my last life, this excited me. Not to mention, I had been raised by a hands-off single father who I hadn't even spoken to in nearly five years. Distantly, I felt a pang at the realization that I wouldn't see him again. But, I reasoned to myself, this wouldn't be much of a change for either him or me. My mind raced with all the possibilities that this could afford me. I wouldn't have to work as a teenager, most likely. I wouldn't have to worry about paying for a good education. I might not even have to go to college, at all! I could start my writing career early! I would have to see what stories have been published in this world – if I was, in fact, in another world. Maybe I could, ahem, borrow some plots. If I was, unfortunately, still on the earth I knew, I could at the very least get around to publishing the stories that I could never get accepted in my past life. With the backing of money, surely, I'd be able to find a taker, this time. Of course, I would have to wait and see just how wealthy this family was. A large, classily furnished home with an irredeemably large television didn't necessarily mean I was a millionaire. But, well, a baby could hope.
I smiled giddily to myself. What did I do to deserve being reborn like this? My heart thudded to a stop in my chest. What… what did I do to deserve this?
An unwelcome intrusive memory flashed in my mind's eye. The feeling of my hand on Tristan's arm. The freefall that followed. All those moments when, hidden behind a computer screen, I'd verbally thrashed Ladybird15 for the disgraceful state of the story they'd birthed. I was a troll. A bully. Even worse, since I was an authority figure in Tristan's life, I was an abuser, wasn't I?
Desperate to claw my way out of the silent, dingy house I called home as a child, I begged my high school counselor to allow me special permission to start college courses during my tenth-grade year. Because of this, I had an associate degree the same year I'd graduated high school. Keeping up the momentum, I'd had my BA by the time I was 20. I entered graduate school at 21, even becoming a Graduate Assistant. I was given the reigns of a creative writing class to teach, though I was monitored by my mentor. I was on course to become a full-time professor by the time I was 23.
It was during the fall of my 22nd year that Tristan entered my class. He was a small, mousy young man. He was, visually, unremarkable. In class, he watched me intently as I lectured. He was enthusiastic during every workshop. He was involved in every online forum discussion during the week. He turned in his homework a day early, every time, without fail. A model student.
Save for the fact that he'd been turning in fanfiction. Seeing as how that didn't technically break any rules, I never docked him points for it. But I wasn't exactly kind. After all, it was fanfiction of my least favorite media. It was good fanfiction, but I couldn't help but feel that he'd be better off writing original work. But being the ass I apparently am, I didn't directly tell him this. Instead, I graded him harshly, trying to encourage him away from fanfiction and towards more respectable writing. Like a hypocrite, because most of the literature I consumed was "Magical Miracle" fanfiction.
I didn't give him failing grades, I wouldn't do that. But I never gave him a grade higher than an 85% on any of his fiction writing. Even some of his poetry exercises he turned in were themed around the show. I couldn't excuse that!
Except I should have just summoned him to the office space I shared with the other grad students. I should have maybe sent him an email or talked to him after class. Hell, I could have made do with a clearly written out note at the bottom of one of this story excerpts. Something.
Maybe, then, both of us would still be alive. I worked my ass off to get to where I was. I had a job I loved. I worked with people I got along with. I had plenty of time to write and read and watch anime and cartoons around my work schedule. I had disposable income I could use to buy manga and novels. I basically had it made at the ripe old age of 22. And that was stolen from me. Pain ripped through my chest and a sob escaped me. A real one, not one of the fake whines I'd pulled out earlier.
Clark turned away from the TV and took hold of my hand. "It's okay baby Zhong," he told me sweetly, rattling a bear toy in front of my nose. I was equal parts annoyed and comforted by his efforts.
Wherever Tristan was now, I thought, I hope he has it as good as I do.