In the tender embrace of a new beginning, we find ourselves awash with the unknown, navigating a world of blurred lines and indistinct shapes. Yet, within this haze, the purest forms of love and care shine through, guiding us toward understanding and belonging. It is in these early, formative moments that we learn the essence of connection, the silent language of affection that binds us to those who cherish us most. Even as our memories fail to capture the specifics, the imprints of these early experiences shape the foundation of who we are and who we will become.
**Baby POV**
There is a reason newborns forget things a week after they are born—the traumatizing pain is not something one should even remember. The agony of entering the world, the sheer terror and suffering of that moment, is a burden too heavy for the innocent to bear. The overwhelming sensation of being squeezed through a narrow passage, the feeling of bones being compressed and muscles being stretched to their limits, is a nightmare that even the strongest minds would struggle to endure.
As I was drifting in and out of sleep, something shifted my tiny body, and a strange sensation nudged at my mouth. Without any control, my mouth opened, and this unfamiliar thing pressed inside. I started to suck instinctively. Even though I was half-asleep, a part of me was still aware, and suddenly, a warm liquid flowed into my mouth. At first, it was confusing, but within a few moments, I realized it was milk. My mother was feeding me!
The warm, nourishing liquid filled my senses, bringing a comforting sensation of fullness. For the next ten minutes, I continued to suck, feeling the steady flow of milk soothe and satisfy me. Eventually, as my hunger was quelled and my tiny stomach reached its limit, my mouth automatically ceased its action. It was an instinctive process, a primal need fulfilled, and I drifted back into a peaceful slumber, feeling content and safe.
This cycle repeated every 2-3 hours. Each time, I would be breastfed, then fall back into sleep for what felt like 12-17 hours, though not continuously. My sleep was fragmented into short bursts, ranging from 20 to 50 minutes, or sometimes 1 to 2 hours, punctuated by frequent awakenings to feed. As a newborn, I had no way to gauge the accuracy of these intervals or the passage of time. The constant cycle of feeding and sleeping blurred my sense of day and night, which might explain why I didn't develop a fixed sleep pattern. My awareness of time was imprecise, wrapped in a perpetual rhythm of nourishment and rest.
You know how I mentioned that I could see the color of my mom's hair and eyes? It turned out I couldn't really; all I could see was in shades of black and grey. It was disorienting. What I thought I saw, with those vibrant colors, must have been a trick of my perception. Maybe it was just an impression or a dream-like fantasy, a mere echo of what I wished to see. The reality of my vision, limited to black and grey, made me question what I truly experienced. What did I really see back then? The memory of those colors now felt elusive, like a half-remembered dream slipping through my grasp.
I don't really want to describe the environment right now because everything is in shades of grey. The world feels stripped of its vibrancy, and it makes me feel an inexplicable sadness. It's as though the richness of my surroundings has been muted, leaving me with a dull, lifeless view. It's a stark contrast to the warmth and color I imagine, and this greyscale world only amplifies my sense of melancholy. Even as a newborn, it's disheartening to see everything through such a muted lens.
It's been about 3 to 4 days since I've been born, I think, and I can't really focus on anything clearly. My eyes wander aimlessly, unable to settle on any one thing. The only time I seem to make perfect eye contact is during breastfeeding. When I look into my mom's eyes, I occasionally catch glimpses of shades of pink. This fleeting burst of color is the only vibrant element in my otherwise greyscale world, and it brings me a deep sense of happiness. It's as if that touch of pink is a reminder of warmth and affection amidst the monochrome haze.
My small arms, seen through unfocused eyes, moved on their own. They were my body, yet it felt as though they didn't truly belong to me just yet. My baby body seemed to function independently of my conscious will. It was as if my consciousness were a puppet inside a marionette, with a puppeteer pulling the strings. The movements were purely reflexive or involuntary, disconnected from any external stimuli or intention. It was an odd sensation, watching my own limbs perform actions without any real sense of control.
It felt profoundly strange. I couldn't recall who I was, what I was, or where I had come from. It was as if these fundamental aspects of my identity were lost in a fog of confusion. The more I tried to understand or piece together my thoughts, the more elusive they became. It was like reaching for a memory that kept slipping away, leaving me with an empty sense of disorientation.
It was an odd sensation, but I was awake, and with great effort, I managed to move my eyes to focus on the figures looking over me. As I mentioned before, my vision was confined to shades of black and white, a greyscale world that offered no respite from its monochromatic palette. There were two people gazing at me—one was undoubtedly my mother, and the other appeared to be a younger figure, possibly around two years old. My mother was dressed in attire reminiscent of the Victorian era, though how I recognized it was a mystery I couldn't quite solve. Her outfit was a blend of exaggerated silhouettes: a fitted bodice paired with a voluminous, floor-length skirt. The smaller figure beside her wore a neat black uniform complemented by a pristine white apron, an image of meticulous cleanliness.
My mother said to the tiny girl, "This child is your master. You are to serve with utmost devotion, okay, Celine?"
Celine's eyes widened with a mix of awe and determination. She nodded vigorously and replied, "Yes, Madam. I will do my best." Her voice was small but resolute, a faint echo of the seriousness she felt in her new role.
My mother's gaze softened slightly as she looked at the little girl. "Good," she said, her tone warm but firm. "You must ensure that all his needs are met and that he is always cared for. This is a significant responsibility."
Celine glanced back at me, her expression a mix of curiosity and obligation. Her uniform, with its crisp lines and spotless apron, seemed almost too formal for her tiny frame, yet she wore it with pride.
As Celine carefully adjusted the hem of her apron, she stole glances at me, her new charge, and then looked back at my mother. "I understand, Madam. I will be the best servant I can be."
My mother smiled approvingly. "Very well. Remember, Celine, the comfort and well-being of the young master are paramount. Everything else comes second."
With that, my mother turned away, her long Victorian gown swishing gently as she walked out of the room. Celine remained behind, her small figure standing still for a moment as if absorbing the weight of her new responsibilities. Her gaze eventually settled on me, and I could sense a faint glimmer of resolve in her eyes.
As she moved closer, her steps were careful and deliberate, and she gently began to attend to my needs. Even in my state of hazy awareness, I could feel a subtle shift in the atmosphere—a quiet dedication in Celine's every action, a silent promise that she would fulfill her duty with unwavering loyalty.
'Hmm, Celine, Celine. Where have I heard that name before? It's like I know it, but once again, nothing comes up,' I thought. The name seemed to stir a faint, elusive memory, something just out of reach, like a dream slipping through my fingers. It felt as if there was a hidden connection waiting to be discovered, something important that would become clear in time.
**Third Person POV**
Little did Manny know that this child, Celine, would be the key to unlocking the memories that had been locked away. For now, he would experience life through the lens of a child, embracing a newfound curiosity and innocence. The connection between them would soon reveal itself, leading him to rediscover what had been hidden from him for so long.
In the days that followed, Manny's curiosity deepened. Despite the world around him being a canvas of grey, he was captivated by the myriad of sounds and sensations that painted his experience. The gentle hum of voices, the soft rustling of fabric, and the comforting warmth of his mother's embrace became focal points in his gradually expanding world. Each new sensation added to his understanding, creating a vivid tapestry of sensory experiences in his otherwise monochromatic existence.
He found himself mesmerized by the cadence of his mother's voice as she sang lullabies, the gentle rhythm soothing his restless spirit. Even in his infantile state, Manny felt a profound connection to this world, a sense of belonging that transcended the immediate discomforts of his new existence. The soft melodies wrapped around him like a comforting embrace, and though his understanding was limited, he instinctively knew that these moments were shaping his nascent awareness.
As weeks passed, Manny's ability to interact with his surroundings improved. His small hands, once flailing uncontrollably, began to reach out and grasp at the air. He would occasionally clutch at the fabric of his mother's dress or the strands of her hair, each touch, though uncoordinated, marking a step toward understanding his new reality. These small discoveries were like milestones in his journey, gradually helping him make sense of the world he had been born into.
His vision, still constrained to shades of grey, gradually improved. He started to distinguish shapes and contrasts more clearly, allowing him to recognize the faces of his mother and Celine. Their once-blurry features began to take form, and the rare glimpses of pink hues in his mother's eyes fascinated him, offering a vivid contrast to his otherwise monochromatic world.
One particular day, as Manny lay in his cradle, his mother and Celine engaged in conversation nearby. He watched them intently, their words a soothing background melody. His mother's voice, filled with warmth and love, spoke volumes even though he couldn't grasp the meaning of every word. Celine, with her youthful enthusiasm, responded earnestly, her devotion evident in every action.
Manny's mother leaned over his cradle, her delicate features softening with affection. "You are so precious, my little one," she whispered, her fingers gently tracing the outline of his tiny hand. "One day, you will understand how much you are loved."
Despite her tender words, Manny felt a slight shiver run through him. There was something unsettling in the depth of her gaze, a vague sense that there was more to her promise than he could grasp. The warmth of her touch contrasted sharply with a faint unease, as if her affection carried hidden undertones he couldn't yet comprehend.
Celine, standing close by, nodded in agreement. "Madam, he is truly a blessing."
"Yes, Celine," his mother replied, her eyes shimmering with a complex mix of sadness, hope, and joy. "He is our hope for the future."
Manny sensed an undercurrent in her voice, a blend of emotions that seemed almost too profound for his young mind to fully grasp. The weight of her words lingered in the air, stirring a vague feeling of unease, as if there were hidden layers to her sentiments he was not yet ready to understand.
As Manny drifted off to sleep, lulled by the tender voices and the gentle rocking of his cradle, he felt a profound sense of belonging mixed with an inexplicable foreboding. The loving care that enveloped him was comforting, yet a subtle unease lingered in his thoughts. He couldn't quite place it, but the sense that there were deeper, unresolved truths waiting for him to discover cast a shadow over his peaceful slumber.