Perspective is a funny thing when it comes to relevancy. Whether its matters of opinion, looking upon an object or other similar possibilities, it's one with many plausibilities for looking at the same thing when different people are involved voicing their thoughts and ideas. In this case, however, I find myself looking at the perspective of growth in my own body. A year, or what was the equivalent of a year in this realm had passed. Mother seemed happier than per usual, and people came into the home in some sort of ceremony. People spoke in speech-like forms as best I could tell from the length and the attention given by others. Folks talked amongst one another, cheered, and shared some sort of green drink as strange people came to look upon me with alternating expressions.

For some, it was good cheer and faith, complete with smiles and what one could assume was well-wishing even if they understood none of what was spoken. Others came with a certain indifference, though still gave what was assumed as well-wishing. One person, however, caught me off guard in my lucidity of ever my increasing fatigue from all the noise and events. A child, likely only a few years older than myself, approached. My mother kneeled down so the young girl could get a better look at me.

At first, it was fine, just a curious child, until the child's faced filled with pouty disgust, like one would find in a spoiled brat that's not the center of attention. The child said only three words as best as I could tell, enough, however, to cause everyone to freeze. Eyes darted to and fro, suffice to say this occurrence was enough for me to snap awake to attention, taking in the newly eerie atmosphere.

I looked at my mother's, normally clear and kind, red eyes to find them boiling with a silent fury as a woman suddenly grasped the rude child from behind, seemingly pleading in some form, obviously fearful of my mother's wrath. My mother stood up with me still in her arms and without a word turned around, headed for the staircase, and marched up those stairs in her anger.

She laid me in my crib with a sad smile on her face, and I found myself confused. Why was she sad? Did I possess some sort of deformity? I began to be worried, already I had been taken care of for a year, so I assumed at this point I wasn't to be abandoned. Yet what could this mean? Did that child speak some sort of grave offense towards me, or maybe a mother was simply embarrassed for her child? It wasn't clear, and nor would I likely ever ascertain answers.

More time passed and this event fell from memory from all parties for the majority. As time passed I found myself capable of walking short distances, one or two steps only, but it's progress. Still, I couldn't understand what was said around me, though through context clues I held guesses. One thing that perturbed me was I had never seen my father. I had seen males in this new life, but none held an intimate look, beyond lust, towards my mother. At first, I didn't notice mostly due to my mind being so dull and sluggish in development for so long, but as time passed it became self-evident. I realized there was no guiding paternal figure in this new life for my own. I had seen what one could call servants carrying trays the few times I was brought out of the room, and I had seen men talk to my mother with rather respectful, almost subservient actions.

The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

It was puzzling, however, I remember learning of the Amazons and the little knowledge I held was that they kidnapped men, mated, and ditched them. Whether or not any of that was true wasn't possible to find out any longer. Thus I wondered if it was simply a culture thing? As long as this world followed similar biology, I had to have a father right? Sleep began its call to me, thus this train of thought became deserted.

Months flew by into what became a year, I was now two years old. My first words came during this year, Ikewamu or mother in this place's native language. I could now walk around my home as I wished and slowly realized how massive it was. From what I could infer, however, I wasn't a part of any sort of nobility, my mother was just very wealthy and had a lot of connections. Did that make me a pseudo-noble? I couldn't be certain. Of course, I don't even know if there is nobility in this world, and for all I know, nobility is simply just different from my stories I had read in what feels an eternity ago. Or maybe it's not? Maybe I am just that ignorant of my surroundings, after all, there is so much I have yet to discover in this land. Part of me believes it's impossible for me to be a noble as my mother never did anything but stay around me watching my every move. The other half, of course, sees the possibility of such from other people's actions and reactions towards my mother. Well, I'd come to know as I grow I suppose.

I walked on my stumpy legs haphazardly through the corridors of the home under my mother's watchful eye, until I reach the lounge, or what I would consider a lounge. Chairs were set in an organized fashion to promote sociality and conversation. Empty trays dotted the room in key parts, reinforcing the idea this lounge was used to greet people. Ornate paintings covered over the decorated walls at certain intervals giving the room a slightly claustrophobic feeling, or it would if I weren't so small. To me, every room was massive and closets were normal sized. Everything from stairs to tables is akin to insurmountable mountains that fill me with dread to try and crawl up on. I eye the closest chair to me and slowly walk up to it. I grab at the sides and try to pull myself up onto it, reaching with my legs and pulling upwards from the waist, wiggling as I go. As I attempt to get onto the chair, I almost can swear I heard a quick bit of laughter somewhere behind me before two huge hands grab me and pick me up.

My mother sits down and places me on her lap with a smile and as she usually does, starts talking. Even now, I barely could understand a tenth of what she says. Certain words I could understand due to it being reinforced by being shown. Words like eat, food, sleep, and other very simple terms had become a part of my new repertoire of this language. I listened to my mother as she spoke, taking in every tone and accent her voice gave as she spoke to at the very least understand the emotion behind it all. Part of me wondered what the story she told was, and part of me found myself clinging to sleep and its creeping embrace, of which I found myself falling into in my mothers' warm arms.