AN: I've rewritten a lot of the book since yesterday because I realized while uploading it that I don't like it at all anymore.
Darkness.
Thick, muffled, absolute.
No thoughts, no memories, no sense of time—until pain. Sharp, shocking, cold and bright all at once.
Am I—?
A piercing wail cuts through the air. It's mine.
Oh God. I'm crying. I don't want to cry. Stop. Stop it!
Hands. So many hands. Rough cloth. A slap to my back. I'm being turned like a sack of flour. Something is terribly wrong. My limbs are tiny. My lungs feel like they've never been used.
Wait—what's going on?
There's a rush of memories. A flash of lights. A truck. Wet pavement. My headphones—
Oh no.
I died, didn't I?
…And now I'm a baby.
The next few weeks are a blur of exhaustion, confusion, and helpless rage. I cry when I'm hungry. I cry when I'm cold. I cry when I'm wet. And worst of all: I understand everything.
I'm in there. Fully conscious. Just... useless.
People talk to me in a language I don't know. A mix of hard consonants and flowing vowels. Not German. Not Japanese. Not anything I recognize.
Fantastic. Not just reincarnated, but also illiterate.
I quickly realize a few things:
I'm on a farm. Dirt floors, animals, wooden walls.
My parents are young, tanned, and always tired.
I have boobs now. Not yet. But soon. Probably.
…And I hate how that third realization keeps haunting me.
Breastfeeding is a nightmare.
Don't get me wrong, biologically it makes sense. Nutrients, bonding, all that jazz. But try experiencing that when you're mentally forty and still remember your first marriage.
The first time it happens, I scream.
Well, more like gurgle and flail.
Mother just smiles and coos at me while I mentally short-circuit.
"This is fine," I tell myself. "It's nature. Totally normal."
Then she shifts position and I get an eye-level view of something I really didn't need to process.
I shut down.
Complete reboot.
By week two, I've developed a coping strategy: I pretend I'm a milk-powered machine being refueled. No emotion. No thoughts. Just input.
Sometimes it works.
Sometimes I lock eyes with Father over Mother's shoulder mid-feed and just want to evaporate.
He looks away quickly.
Smart man.
Then there's the diaper situation.
The first few times, I cried from sheer humiliation.
Not from the mess—though, dear gods, the mess—but from the indignity.
Imagine knowing exactly what's happening, feeling it happen, and being physically unable to stop it.
Then a teenager picks you up, lays you on a table, sniffs you, and nods like a sommelier.
"Yep. She's ripe."
I died inside.
The worst part? Mid-change, I accidentally lock eyes with the poor boy and let out a confused burble. He blushes. I blush.
We both want to die.
He wraps me back up like a sausage roll and practically tosses me into the cradle.
Boundaries. We all need boundaries.
By month three, I've got the stares down. Everyone melts when I look up with big, round eyes. I don't mean to manipulate anyone, but hey, survival first. Turns out I'm an adorable baby girl with perfect curls and pouty cheeks. Yay me.
The farmhands—four of them, all male—take turns holding me. One of them makes stupid noises and tickles my feet like I'm some kind of toy.
I try to bite him. I miss. No teeth.
One day I catch a glimpse of myself in a shiny bucket of water. Huge eyes. Silky hair. Button nose. I'm like an anime baby.
This is not okay.
Another day, I manage to roll over for the first time and startle myself so badly I burst into tears. So much for dignity. The entire house applauds like I just solved climate change.
You'd think being forty years old inside would help, but no. Try coordinating limbs that have the strength of wet noodles. Try not panicking when you suddenly pee yourself in public and no one bats an eye because you're a baby. It's humiliating.
Worse: I can't even rant about it. Not out loud. My mouth doesn't work properly yet. All I can do is gurgle in rage and glare at my own hands.
...