[MC's images in paragraph comment.]
It all started where it usually does in these types of stories. I died.
I don't remember much about my past life. Or at least the parts about my family and friends have been blurred into oblivion. I know I had a loving family. Parents, definitely. Sibling(s), maybe. Friends and lovers, not so sure.
I bet you're not interested in what my life used to be, but what it is now. To disappoint many among you, no, I did not wake up in a womb, about to be squished out and soon to be smacked on my bum by a pervert (a.k.a. doctor.) Nor did I wake up in my bed to find that the memories of my two lives had been merged. No. That would've been too simple.
As long as I remember, I instinctively know things. For example, I didn't have to read the alphabet like a normal kid. I began my reading with words. And didn't that freak out my mother? (More on that later.)
Okay, so as I was saying I knew stuff that a toddler shouldn't be aware of in normal circumstances. Add that to the fact that I was born in a middle-class catholic family in Bromley, London. Normally, that would be good news as that's much better than being born in a third-world country.
The first problem is of course my 'loving' family. My father was the only one among the two who truly loved me unconditionally. Despite me being a freak of nature as my mother used to sometimes call me. He spent most of his time with me whenever he was home. I used to think that my mother must be terrible in bed as Dad would rather play catch with his toddler than play adult games with her.
It was only later I found out the reason. He was diagnosed with advanced pancreatic cancer when I was just three. His medical bills sky-rocketed and he couldn't spend as much time at his work as he used to earlier because of his worsening health.
My mother used to shout at him a lot for it. Being a toddler, I didn't want to get in between them. And that one time I tried when I was four, I was backhanded across the face by my mother.
That was the first time I saw my father hit my mother. I decided immediately that it was better to just let them be. At least there was no hitting when I wasn't involved.
That was also the day when Dad told me everything.
"I won't be here long, love," He caressed my hair after I was done sobbing on his chest, "Daddy has to go away."
"Are you dying?" I asked bluntly.
He sighed out loud before chuckling, "Of course, you'd know all about that." He rubbed his face tiredly before looking me directly in the eye, "Yes, I have at most two years to live. But you never know what may happen." He finished in a somber tone.
Fresh tears pricked my eyes as I hugged him again, "Why you? Why couldn't it be her?" I asked between sobs.
"Don't say that, love," He rebuked, "Your mom loves you a lot, she's just… sad that I'll go away. Now promise me one thing."
He held me by my shoulders and carefully looked me in the eye again, "Promise that you'll take care of her. I know she'll need someone to rely on, and after me, you'll be the man of the house, so promise that you'll love her and care for her. But most importantly, promise me that you'll be happy as much as you can."
I nodded with everything I had. I didn't want to disappoint him any further.
He didn't live much longer after that. He died a week before my fifth birthday, on Christmas Eve. Less than a week before the beginning of 1994.
At that time, it hurt. A lot. But such is life. His funeral was a quiet affair as he didn't have any family in England, being born and raised in Seattle, USA in his early years. Dad just had an uncle in New York, but even he didn't show up. Dad didn't have any other family so the visitors were mostly his friends, co-workers and neighbors, and of course my mother's relatives.
After the funeral, life came back to a regularity of sorts. Luckily for my mother, Dad had taken insurance before I was born. It wasn't too much money, but we should be comfortable for a few years at the very least.
I was feeling more and more lonely than ever at home. You must be thinking at least I had my mother right? Right?
Wrong.
She had married my father straight out of college and had been living with him for the last 10 or so years without working a single day in her life. And now she blamed me for her misfortune. She never outright said it, but she might as well have.
I tried to explain to myself that it was her way of coping with loss, but you could do that only so many times before you get disillusioned with your life. And yes, I know it is fucking weird to feel that before even becoming a teenager, but such was my life.
Now, this was only the first problem. The second problem came in the form of the year. I was born in January 1989. Yes, the era when the internet wasn't available for us common folk. Heck, even mobile phones were a thing for the rich and nobility with sky-high prices for both the handset and operating charges.
In the absence of such resources, my mother sought out help from the church regarding my talents. While most of the priests were impressed by my quick grasp of language and even offered to take me under their wing, (I still shudder at the mere thought,) there was this one old crone who insisted we call her sister. (The only person she could be a sister of was Adolf Hitler.) So, this crone used to look at me warily and began chanting verses from the Holy Bible whenever I was in her close proximity.
At the time I thought she would probably become better with the passage of time. So I was on my best behavior and gave her my biggest smile possible.
Unfortunately for me, it had a totally opposite effect on her. Seeing my smile, her looks of wariness turned into contempt, and eventually, my mere sight would cause her to give me a look of deep hatred.
Some of her words must have reached my mother's ears because that was the time when she began distancing herself from me and spent most of her days in the gloom, drinking away my father's insurance money.
Life was hell, yes, but I survived. Before someone goes on a tirade about not knowing the difficulties of the poor uneducated children in some parts of Africa or other such underdeveloped regions, please don't. If only I was a little older, say, by 5 years, I wouldn't have such a problem.
But I wasn't. Do you know how difficult it is for a 5-year-old to buy groceries when his mother is probably passed out in a ditch somewhere? Or to avoid getting the police involved when any sane person can take a look and straightaway lock her up for child negligence? Or to simply reach the countertop so I could make something edible for the two of us?
No, you fucking don't. So reserve your judgment for someone who cares about it.
Each day was a struggle, but I somehow made it work. I knew that if I didn't grab life by its tits, I would become depressed and kill myself off. So I found joy in little things which most people don't. It was difficult, but that's how I spent three years after my Dad's passing. That was a brief summary of my life for the first eight years.