I opened my eyes and everything was blurry. The rooms brightness seemed solar, forcing me to squint to see. And… I wanted to cry. I wanted to cry so much, that damned light was annoying me. What was wrong with me?

With some concentration, the shape of two people in front of me became clearer. They were giant, their noses seemingly enough to crush me. I was scared. I cried.

I started wailing loud and loose. Like all should know I was scared of these two giant humans and someone should definitely come to save me or else… I would cry some more. I tried to move in hopes of escaping the giant people. It annoyed me the instinct to run didn’t come before my urge screaming. My body didn’t budge.

I tried to move again, using way more into it this time and my limbs started to flail, making minor motions up and down and left and right, I couldn’t control them with much of any precision at all. But I managed to move them enough to see my arms flail. They were like two rattles shaking.

My crying and movement seemed to alert the giants, one of them approaching me. My vision had begun to clear too, and I started to realise the giant approaching as a woman.

She had a big smile filled with adoration and almost pride directed right at me. What had I done? I was growing increasingly confused. And scared. And angry. And… I cried even louder.

“xxx xxxxx xxxx xxxx xxxxxxx xxxx”

I heard odd noises come from her lips. I could feel a grammar to the sounds, some order to it, but it wasn’t English. I had learnt four languages in my past, and something I had gotten really good at was capturing the essence of a language early. I struggled here, but after a few more random sounds I managed to figure out she had named me., although it may have been something else relating to her culture. I guessed my name to be Alo.

The women picked me up, placing me laying on her shoulder. Like a spell I was calmed. My emotions weren’t even mine anymore. I felt comfortable. Too comfortable.

I’d somehow gotten fatter than I remembered myself. I had never been fat in my entire life, only eating the best food my parents’ millions could buy. But here it was, warm, comforting and protecting me.

I tried to grab the women’s clothes in case I fell, but my fingers weren’t capable. I looked to them noticing how simple they were: they had few creases and were a lively pink. My crying slowly simpered, till I grew tired and felled asleep.

The days following weren’t much different to that. I would often grow tired of thinking. I got many headaches and learnt less because of it. It took me two months to see clearly.

I spent most of my time reflecting over what I knew happened before. Before I felt my skull pierced. Before my parents died. And then before I begun to fear my brother’s success. This happened over and over, with rare interruptions being awake in a confusing new world.

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In that time, I learnt I was not with giants, but rather I was a child of two months. My parents were beautiful, my mother was as beautiful as any of the celebrities I had met before, except she had a natural grace about her. My father had the fill of a leader, too muscular to be common but too quick to be merely a guard. But he missed one arm, something I recognised as a great source of pain for him the more I watched him.

We were poor. Horrendously poor. It wasn’t just that they did not have fridges and TVs and electricity, things I thought custom in all households until now. But they lacked space and garments. We seemed to live in a small room like hut, or hut like room. We all shared the same squarish space with little to adorn the place. This meant my mind had to wander a lot to entertain itself.

But I reflected on what I knew of before less and less. My memories had become distorted with emotion. I was angry at Harry for his stoicism at our parent’s funeral. I was frustrated I had always been a failure in our household. I was ashamed I gave up on helping the world with my research for something as little as grief. My emotions were conflicted. Harry mastered himself and continued to succeed. I was weak. I lost again. The games, drugs, and Edwardo were just consequences of a life wasted. Squandered by me.

I made sure to train my muscles deliberately as much as I could every day for however long I managed to stay awake. It all started as somewhere between habit and fear. I needed to be learning something or else I may fall in that dangerous spiral that cost me my life again, but being able to do more meant I could spend more time with my new Mother and Father. I didn’t want them to see me and be impressed, I just enjoyed them seeing me for once.

I started crawling at three months, which from the worrying gasps from my parents, was a bit young. It was liberating to move with the earth at my fingertips, but also worryingly unhygienic. It took me a week after to start walking. I moved tentatively at first but when my parents caught on, I started running towards them and away, with a stupid free laugh all the time.

The more they cared for me and played with me, the happier seeing them made me. It felt like a betrayal of my actual parents, but I couldn’t help it. But I noticed the more they cared for me, the less I would miss my actual parents, and the more I would cry, ashamed of myself for giving them such little respect.

I wasn’t taken outside much, and I couldn’t understand much of the world until I learnt the language my parents spoke. It took me two more months to get it. Up until then I had slowly understood more and more sentences and words until I knew most of what they said.

I still couldn’t speak. I knew I needed to train my voice muscles but I couldn’t bring myself to spout nonsense sounds in front of my parents. I would talk to them once I mastered their speech, I’d affirm to myself. But they wouldn’t let me, if I tugged at them to play, they’d always engage me with pointless one-sided conversations, it took me until month three to realise half the time what they said didn’t even make sense to them, just some pointless baby talks to obscure my learning.

My first sound was me shouting “Stop.” But it ended up more as a “Gah.” This didn’t happen until I was 8 months aged. They seemed relieved their child wasn’t mute even though I had already begun to run.

My muscles were good enough to speak full words after around twelve months. I convinced father to take me with him training, my first real excursion. I remember placing clear arguments and firm reasoning, but from his laugh afterwards, I don’t know how much of that he understood.

“Like father like son.” Mother said. I just wanted to spend more time with him.