Perfection is a distant mirage—always on the horizon, forever unreachable. To imagine approaching it feels almost sacrilegious, a defiance of human limitation.
Here's the truth; I'm grappling with an enduring problem, a shadow that's lingered with me for what feels an eternity. But that's only part of the story.
Fragments of my consciousness are seized, commandeered by something else—a force that's undeniably me, yet wholly separate. It takes over with a strength I could never muster. Do you know what that's like? Each time, a more formidable version of myself emerges, navigating crises with an efficiency I envy. When the storm subsides, I return, only to find myself bereft of any memory of the intervening events.
I have glimpsed these alternate selves, fleetingly—an uncanny reflection achieving its goals in its own frame of time, while I struggle to regain control. When I finally resurface, I'm greeted by relentless headaches. The day and time might be familiar, but the events are a blank canvas. The transition isn't sudden; it's a slow, disorienting emergence from a profound, dreamless slumber.
THWACK!
The frying pan clanged against the ground, the metallic echo reverberating through the room. A young figure bolted for the door, their frantic cries splitting the silence, "Grandma! Grandma!"
Moments later, the child reappeared, breathless and accompanied by a girl and an elderly woman. Unlike Kiel and the elfin child, these newcomers were unmistakably human—uncomplicated and resolutely ordinary.
Kiel moaned softly, his eyelids fluttering open. The sun blazed with an intensity that felt almost hostile, its rays a glaring intrusion through the window, searing his skin. As he emerged from the depths of unconsciousness, his eyes struggled against the blinding light, squinting in discomfort.
"Look, he's coming through," the young Kaiju whispered, urgency threading his voice. The old woman's eyes widened, and she immediately signaled the girl for assistance. Without hesitation, the girl darted away, her movements perfectly synchronized with the old woman's swift, deliberate actions.
Kiel forced his eyes open, wincing as pain lanced through his skull—a searing agony that suggested someone had tried to split it open. He grimaced, trying to collect his thoughts. Where am I? Did I lose consciousness? The words stumbled in his mind, heavy against the throbbing ache. After two strained blinks, his vision began to steady.
His gaze darted around the room. It resembled an airing cupboard—though larger, almost spacious. Enough room to move without restriction.
Three walls were lined with shelves, each stacked with neatly folded towels, sheets, blankets, and pillowcases. The pristine order of the linens stood in stark contrast to his disheveled state—mundane perfection mocking his confusion.
And then, there was the boy.
Despite the throbbing in his head, a strange thought took hold. Am I dead? Or trapped in a dream? But it felt too real, too visceral to be imagination.
Kiel turned his head with painstaking effort, focusing on his supposed rescuer. Where he might have expected shock or awe, there was none. As their eyes met, an unexpected calm settled over him. There was no surprise—only a quiet, soothing acceptance.
Again, he was enveloped by an inexplicable sense of serene resignation.
"Stay calm," a rational voice in his mind urged—its tone a steady anchor in his storm of confusion. "Just observe."
Half-closing his eyes, Kiel took a deep breath, his chest rising and falling in slow rhythm as fragments of memory flitted across his mind. The silence between them was deep, almost tangible, as they held each other's gaze for what felt like an eternity—until it broke.
"Hello," the Kaiju began, raising a tentative hand in greeting.
"Nope," came the terse reply, the boy's gestures sharp and decisive. It was then Kiel realized he was bound firmly to the bed, his limbs held fast. He strained against the restraints, muscles taut, desperate. They didn't budge.
"Hey, what are you doing? Let me go!" Kiel signed furiously, his fingers slicing the air with sharp, urgent motions.
Kiel's face remained expressionless, exhaustion dimming any hint of confusion. Wincing, he signed, "Where am I? Ack! My head—what did you hit me with?" He tried to sit up, but a searing pain pulsed through his skull, radiating in relentless waves down his body.
His memories were a shifting fog.
The question lingered in the charged silence, hanging like an unwelcome guest. The young Kaiju stood with his shoulders hunched, guilt evident in his nervous fidgeting. He clasped his hands behind his back, his eyes darting furtively, betraying his unease. Kiel watched as the boy stealthily nudged a frying pan under the bed with his foot, a strained whistle escaping his lips—a poor attempt to mask his anxiety. Kiel had seen it all unfold, felt the sharp crack against his skull, fully aware of the truth behind the chaos.
The old woman entered, her careful hands cradling a small white bowl. Behind her, the young girl followed, balancing a pail with practiced ease.
Kiel's eyes settled on the girl, and recognition washed over him. It was her—the same girl from the game, with that unmistakable orange hair.
The elderly woman passed the child Kaiju, her measured steps leading her directly to Kiel. Her long, gray hair was tightly pinned, and her olive skin bore the deep lines of sunlit years and hearty laughter. Her expression carried the unmistakable authority of a matriarch. The girl beside her had inherited her mother's striking features, while the boy mirrored his father's likeness. Her voice, sharp and commanding, could easily quell any defiance.
A long knife flashed in her hand, and for a brief moment, Kiel's unease heightened. But her intentions became clear as she leaned down, using the blade to sever the ropes binding his form. She straightened, her expression softening slightly.
"Here, take this," she said, standing before him, lips curling into a faint smile while her eyes remained analytical. "You've already taken the medicine I prepared. Just one more dose, and you'll be back on your feet soon."
Kiel stared, uncertainty written across his features. His gaze flickered to the bowl she held—inside was a brownish liquid, chunks of something indeterminate bobbing within.
He was a mess—his hoodie and shirt had been stripped away, leaving him bare and vulnerable. His midsection was bound tightly in bandages, the severity of his injuries evident. But the physical discomfort was secondary to a deeper disorientation—a heavy weight pressing down on him.
He couldn't help but wonder—was this the end? Would he meet his demise at the hands of an elderly woman, or by the frying pan of a child Kaiju? His past had shown him how easily beings like him were discarded—why would these humans risk themselves for him?
He eyed the strange liquid. Poison? The suspicion gnawed at him, but as he observed the sincerity in their expressions—serene, genuine smiles—something within him eased.
Kiel took a deep breath, his hands trembling slightly as he reached for the bowl. The liquid burned his throat—a sharp, almost unbearable intensity. The fiery sensation triggered a series of harsh coughs. Is it supposed to do that?
As the pain subsided, fractured memories surged. A village, sunlight, vibrant greenery, a child's laughter. Then chaos—fire, destruction, the child crying, a doll left behind, and an older Kaiju dragging him away.
Kiel snapped back, his frustration palpable. The bowl slipped from his grasp, shattering as it hit the floor.
He hadn't realized it had fallen until the sound jarred him from his daze. He stared at the shards, breath catching. What if she reacted violently?
But the old woman simply knelt and began to gather the pieces with deliberate precision.
"Why are you helping me?" Kiel signed, bewildered. "Are you not afraid of someone like me?"
"Hold still," she said softly, her voice unwavering. "You mustn't move."
Wait, was she angry? He braced himself. Beyond the window, the world shifted—the skeletal branches of winter giving way to the lushness of spring. Birds sang, mocking his silent yearning.
He began to sign. "You have no idea, do you?" His hands moved deliberately. "You navigate life like sleepwalkers, blind to the shadows closing in."
Profound silence hung in the room.
"Oh?" The old woman's tone held steel. "Do you presume to know more?" She smiled grimly. "I've faced darkness greater than you could imagine. You're just a child. Compared to what I've seen, you're almost a trivial fear."
Kiel stared, surprised.
"So, you're not afraid? Not even a little?" He signed.
"Not in the slightest," she responded. "And don't think I take joy in this. I was at peace—until my grandson brought back what I had long buried."
"Monsters?" Kiel signed.
"Close," she replied, her voice bitter. "The existence of monsters."
Her words hung heavy in the air. As she left, Kiel felt the weight of her revelation. What had seemed a haven was now a prison.
The comforting order of the room now mocked his turmoil. Caught between an unshakable past and an uncertain future, Kiel waited—ensnared in the quiet confrontation with his own thoughts.
He traced the fading lines on his wrist, where the restraints had left angry marks. They were the only proof of his ordeal, a reminder that he was still, for the moment, trapped in someone else's world.
The young Kaiju, standing off to the side, continued to watch him with anxious eyes. There was a raw curiosity there—an innocence Kiel hadn't seen in a long time. Despite everything, he couldn't help but feel a strange kinship with this child. Perhaps it was the unspoken understanding that they were both outcasts, both anomalies in a world that refused to accept them.
Kiel sighed, his gaze drifting back to the ceiling. The world outside felt far away, the songs of the birds a stark contrast to the chaos within. He closed his eyes, allowing the sounds to wash over him, trying to find some semblance of peace amidst the turmoil.
The boy shifted nervously, finally breaking the silence. "You should rest," he whispered, his voice barely audible over the distant calls of nature.
Kiel didn't respond, his eyes remaining closed as he let the child's words sink in. Rest. It felt like an impossible luxury, like something he wasn't allowed. Not yet. Not until he figured out where he was, why he was still alive, and what they wanted from him.
But for now, he had no choice. He was too weak to fight, too disoriented to plan an escape. He would have to bide his time, wait for the right moment to seize control again. Until then, he would remain in this strange, quiet place—haunted by memories and shadowed by a fear he couldn't quite shake.
A fear that perhaps, this time, he wouldn't be able to get back up. That perhaps, for once, his other selfs had abandoned him entirely, leaving him to face the world alone.