The echoes of the office party still reverberated in Philip's ears, a symphony of forced laughter and thinly veiled insults aimed squarely at him. He could practically feel the phantom sting of the champagne flute glancing off his elbow, the spray of overpriced bubbly a final, damp, punctuation mark on the evening's failures. "Fuck me," he muttered, the phrase a familiar comfort in moments of acute self-awareness.
He'd slunk away the first chance he got, the forced smiles and backhanded compliments leaving a bitter aftertaste—though that could also be the questionable mini-quiches.
Hours later, the city lights blurred through the film of unshed tears in his eyes. He'd found himself wandering aimlessly, his feet seeking the familiar, if somewhat pathetic, solace of Elm Park.
The small lake, usually a haven of tranquility, reflected the city's neon glow in distorted, shimmering streaks, a perfect visual representation of his slightly-off-kilter ego. Like a funhouse mirror reflecting my soul, he thought dramatically.
He plopped onto a nearby bench, the cool metal a stark contrast to the burning indignation radiating from him. He took a dramatic, theatrical sigh, finally allowing himself a moment to wallow in his self-inflicted misery.
He'd tried to appreciate the view, the gentle lapping of water against the shore, the rustling leaves whispering secrets in the darkness. But the beauty felt…insulting. Like the universe was actively mocking him with its serene indifference to his obviously monumental suffering. "Assholes," he mumbled, thinking of his colleagues. Each and every one of them.
He replayed the evening's humiliations in his head, each one a fresh, slightly exaggerated, wound. The awkward small talk, the forced laughter at jokes he only half-understood, the way his colleagues' eyes flicked away whenever he tried to contribute a brilliant, insightful comment (okay, maybe just a comment).
He was the office pariah, the butt of every mildly amusing anecdote, the one everyone tolerated but no one consulted on crucial business decisions like, say, the optimal flavor of office donuts. The label "loser" felt a bit harsh, he decided. "Underappreciated genius" was far more accurate.
They just don't get me, he thought, conveniently forgetting the time he'd tried to explain his theory about the socio-economic implications of flavored coffee pods. "Shit," he thought. "I need a new job".
He reached into his pocket for the small, battered silver flask he always carried. A few sips of whiskey usually took the edge off, though tonight, even the burn of the liquor felt weak against the icy grip of his wounded pride. He took a swig anyway, the warmth spreading through his chest, a fleeting, slightly-guilty comfort.
He knew he was being dramatic, but honestly, sometimes a little dramatic self-pity was exactly what a person needed. Besides, he thought, who's going to stop me? The universe?
After a while, he felt a presence beside him. He glanced sideways and saw a man sitting on the other end of the bench. He was shrouded in shadows, his features obscured by the dim light.
There was something about him that made Philip…itchy. Like he'd left a tag on his new shirt or something. His clothes were dark and loose, almost like he was trying to hide himself, or maybe he just really liked comfortable clothes. He sat perfectly still, not looking at Philip, not looking at anything in particular. Creepy, Philip thought. Definitely creepy.
An awkward silence stretched between them. Philip, never comfortable with silence, started to whistle a tuneless melody, a nervous habit he hadn't been able to break since childhood. The whistling was off-key and hesitant, mirroring his own inner turmoil, which, he admitted, was mostly manufactured for dramatic effect.
He immediately regretted it. Why did I do that? he thought, cringing inwardly. Now he just looked like a weird, whistling loner. Which, okay, wasn't entirely inaccurate. But I don't need to advertise it, he thought glumly.
The man still didn't move, didn't speak. He remained a shadowy figure at the edge of Philip's vision. Philip's anxiety began to prickle. Was he being judged? Probably. He took another swig from his flask, the whiskey doing little to calm his nerves. He was about to get up and leave when the man finally turned his head.
His eyes, when they met Philip's, were surprisingly clear, almost piercing in the dim light. They held an intensity that made Philip's breath catch in his throat. Or maybe it was just the whiskey.
The man's face was still mostly hidden in shadow, but those eyes…they seemed to see right through him, to the core of his slightly-exaggerated despair. He can probably smell the cheap wine on my breath, Philip thought, mortified.
He opened his mouth as if to speak, then hesitated. He looked out at the lake for a moment, then back at Philip. His lips twitched into what might have been a smile, but it was gone so quickly Philip couldn't be sure.
"Lost, are you?" the man said, his voice low and gravelly, like the rumble of distant thunder. Or a really bad case of indigestion, Philip thought.
Philip blinked, surprised that the man had spoken at all. He wasn't sure how to answer. Lost? Yes, he was lost. Lost in his own slightly-overblown feelings of inadequacy, lost in the labyrinth of his bruised ego. But he couldn't bring himself to admit it to this strange, unsettling man.
He'd probably just tell me to pull myself up by my bootstraps or something equally unhelpful, Philip thought.
"Just…thinking," Philip mumbled, his voice barely above a whisper. About how much my life sucks, he added silently.
The man nodded slowly. "Thinking," he repeated, the word hanging in the air like a question. He looked back out at the lake, his gaze fixed on something in the distance. "Sometimes," he said, his voice barely audible, "thinking is the most dangerous thing of all." Especially when you're thinking about how much you hate your job, Philip thought.
And then, just as suddenly as he had appeared, the man stood up and walked away, disappearing into the shadows of the park. Philip watched him go, a shiver running down his spine. The man's words echoed in his mind: Thinking is the most dangerous thing of all.
He didn't understand what the man meant, but he had a feeling he would soon find out. Or maybe not. Maybe he was just overthinking it. He probably just needed a good night's sleep and a decent cup of coffee. "And maybe," he added to himself, "a winning lottery ticket. That would be fucking fantastic." Or a winning personality. That would also be fucking fantastic.
He decided to get up and head home. As he shifted on the bench, something slipped from his pocket – his keys, his wallet, maybe? He reached down to grab it, fumbling slightly in the darkness. The tiles around the bench, dampened by a recent, light drizzle, were slick.
As he straightened up, he slipped. His feet flew out from under him, and he landed with a sickening thud against the sharp edge of the bench. He saw stars. Then he saw blackness. "Oh, for fuck's sake," he thought, right before everything went dark. Not again.
He awoke to… more blackness. But this wasn't the blackness of unconsciousness. This was… something else. He felt… weightless. Disoriented. He tried to scream, but no sound came out. He tried to move, but his limbs wouldn't respond. Panic seized him, cold and clammy. Where was he? What had happened? He felt… different. Like he wasn't quite… himself. Did I die? he thought, his mind reeling.
Then, through the endless black, swirling colors began to appear, coalescing into a vortex of cosmic energy. He felt himself being pulled towards it, his very essence seeming to unravel, to be sucked into the swirling chaos. It felt like his soul was being… extracted. This is so weird, he thought vaguely.
He awoke to… more blackness. But this wasn't the blackness of unconsciousness. This was… different. He felt… confined. Squished. Like he was trapped in a warm, fleshy, slightly damp… space. Something was pressing against him from all sides, a constant, gentle pressure that felt both constricting and strangely comforting.
And there was a distinct… coldness on his ass. Like his backside was being vacuum-sealed, but also…...wet. Really wet. It was a disconcerting combination of sensations. He tried to scream, but no sound came out. He tried to move, but his limbs wouldn't respond. Am I paralyzed? he thought, panic clawing at his throat. Where was he? What had happened? He felt… different. Like he wasn't quite… himself. He felt… small. And strangely… floaty. Like he was suspended in some kind of… liquid? Oh god, am I in a giant soup? The thought made him feel queasy, though he wasn't sure why.
Then, through the endless black, swirling colors began to appear, coalescing into a vortex of cosmic energy. It shimmered with hues he'd never seen before, pulsing with an alien light. He felt himself being pulled towards it, his very essence seeming to unravel, to be sucked into the swirling chaos. It felt like his soul was being… extracted. Like he was being born. Wait, what?
The swirling vortex grew larger, consuming his vision, his thoughts, his very being. He was no longer Philip, the underappreciated office worker, the dramatic self-pitying loser. He was simply… gone. Pulled into the swirling, chaotic heart of… something. Something vast. Something terrifying. Something… new. And then, the blackness was absolute once more. This is seriously messed up, he thought, his mind clinging to the last vestiges of coherent thought.
Then, light.
He opened his eyes, finally feeling his body again, but seeing only… a blurry mess. The pressure was gone, but he still felt… weird. Like he was missing something. Or maybe like he had too much of something. His skin felt… clammy. And there was still that damn coldness on his ass. Seriously, what is up with my ass? he thought, his mind fixated on the persistent chill. He tried to wiggle his fingers, his toes, anything, but nothing responded. He was trapped. Utterly, terrifyingly trapped. Panic clawed at his throat, but no sound escaped. He was being held, inexorably, by some unseen force.
Suddenly, the blurry mess resolved into something… recognizable, yet utterly bizarre. He was being held… by a woman. An elegant woman, somewhere in her forties, dressed in what looked suspiciously like a witch's costume. Like, full-on cosplay witch, complete with pointed hat. Is this some kind of elaborate prank? he wondered, his mind grasping for any rational explanation, even as the absurdity of a witch costume holding him registered.
And then, laughter. Loud, joyous laughter. He turned his head (or at least, he thought he turned his head – his neck felt strangely stiff) and saw a couple embracing, beaming at him with uncontainable joy. The witch-lady, the one holding him like a… like a particularly damp and squirmy sack of potatoes, looked at the happy couple and asked, "What shall we name the young master?" Young master? What the hell is this, a Renaissance Faire gone horribly wrong? he thought, his confusion deepening, the "young master" title only adding to the surreal, witch-themed tableau.
"Kael!" the man exclaimed, his voice booming with happiness.
"Kael," the woman echoed, her eyes shining with tears.
Kael? What the fuck is going on? he thought, his mind struggling to process the surreal situation. He tried to speak, to ask what in the goddamn hell was happening, but all that came out was a… a gurgling sound.Seriously?Gurgling? he thought, mortified, the utter lack of control over his own body amplifying his terror.
Then it hit him. The woman holding him, this woman in a *witch costume*, she was looking at him with love and tenderness. It was deeply weird coming from someone dressed like that. And the man and women, beaming at him like they've just won the lottery… were they his parents? Is this some kind of twisted joke? Did I get roofied at the office party and this is all a hallucination? he thought, his mind grasping at straws, each explanation more outlandish than the last. What the actual shit?
He looked down and saw… tiny hands. Tiny, pudgy baby hands. And he was wearing… a diaper. A fucking diaper! His ass was cold! Oh my god, I'm naked! he thought, his sense of horror escalating with each new, horrifying realization.
He was a baby. He was a fucking baby! All that talk about being "lost" – he wasn't lost, he was reborn. Or something. Reborn as… a baby? This is insane! he thought, his mind refusing to accept the reality of the situation, the sheer improbability of it all crashing down on him.
"What the fuck…" he thought, but what came out was, "Da… da…" followed by a full-on, ear-piercing baby wail. He was crying. He was a crying baby in a witch's arms with a man and woman calling themselves his parents. In what was clearly some kind of bizarre fantasy cosplay convention. Or… was it? The thought sent a shiver down his tiny spine, a cold dread creeping in that went beyond simple confusion. "What. The. Actual. Fucking. Shit," he thought, the thought lost in a sea of baby tears and the lingering, unsettling feeling of… well, he'd just been born. He'd been inside that woman. His… mother? The reality of it was utterly baffling that he was a baby.