"Awakening is not a thing. It is not a goal, not a concept. It is not something to be attained. It is a metamorphosis. If the caterpillar thinks about the butterfly it is to become, saying ‘And then I shall have wings and antennae,’ there will never be a butterfly. The caterpillar must accept its own disappearance in its transformation. When the marvelous butterfly takes wing, nothing of the caterpillar remains."

“Alejandro Jodorowsky”

A rooster crowed, startling him awake.

Nathair wondered which of his colleagues was being an ass. Reaching towards his nightstand, he felt for his phone. His hand didn’t touch a table. Instead, he felt dust on his fingers.

Feeling around, he tried to recall how much he drank last night. It had to be a lot for him to pass out on the floor. Every time he drank, he knew he would regret it. He was too old to party like this.

Shaking his head, he tried to clear the fog. Did he go drinking?

Cracking an eye, he looked around. He was hoping for a visual aid to help him search for his phone. Panic started rising in his chest at what he saw.

The floor was dirty and covered in hay. It resembled the barn he housed his horses at, except more rugged.

He sat up. His head swam, and he laid back down. As a pounding headache started. He took a deep breath, trying to get his mind clear.

Was this a prank?

Did he get kidnapped?

His body felt strange. His limbs were heavy. He was having difficulty moving. It was like he’d slept in a cold place. All of him was stiff.

He closed his eyes. Taking a deep breath, he managed to calm down. The fog in his mind began to clear. The pounding in his head lessened.

Sitting up slowly, he scuttled backward until he propped himself up against a wall. Taking note of his body, he wished he was still in the foggy haze. Maybe then, what he was seeing and feeling would make sense.

His body was short. Much shorter than he should be. His limbs were thin and gangly. Hunger gnawed at his stomach.

Lifting a hand, he brought it right up to his face. As if staring at it at a closer distance would change what he was seeing.

Nathair curled his fingers. His hand made a fist. Relaxing his hand, panic morphed into dread as the unfamiliar fingers opened. His hand was not this tiny. His hand should not be this tiny.

At forty, he’d long developed calluses and swollen joints. His legs were not this skinny. He was an outdoorsman.

Despite preferring intellectual pursuits, he enjoyed hiking and a mix of various martial arts. Due to years of practice, he had a toned and well-defined body. He’d let himself go a little as he got older, but it shouldn’t be like this.

No. The hand he was looking at belonged to a child. Small fingers. Each vein and bone, visible through gaunt stretched skin.

Where was he? How was this happening?

Darkness overtook him.

The rooster continued to crow. The sound echoed through his mind as if mocking him.

If that wasn’t the sound of someone’s alarm, then where the hell was he that had an actual rooster.

The last thing he remembered was too peculiar to be true. His lab exploded, and he spent a long time in the dark.

His body was being shaken.

“Nathair…,” a worried voice called. “It’s time to get up. You shouldn’t have slept out here.”

The woman’s voice was soft. It felt familiar but was different from what he was used to.

Nathair's mind turned out little facts that he was having a hard time piecing together. He remembered his dream from earlier. A reality he was staunchly ignoring even as the woman shaking him was forcing him to an uncomfortable conclusion.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“Nathair?” she called, getting more panicked as he remained unresponsive.

That was his name, but this wasn’t where he should be. He died. He remembered that. The information seemed fantastical and more in line with a story than reality.

“I’m up,” he replied. His eyes widened at the milky voice that came out of his mouth.

A beautiful worn-out-looking woman was the first thing he saw. Shit, he should have kept his eyes closed. Facts were forcing him to accept reality. He couldn’t even begin to comprehend.

The tension in her eyes started to disappear. It didn’t seem as if she noticed anything strange. “You’re usually up earlier than this. I was worried when I realized you didn’t feed the chickens.”

Nathair wondered what he was supposed to say. He assumed he was a child from the size of his body and the sound of his voice. He wasn’t knowledgeable about child development but could be anywhere from a large six-year-old to a small ten-year-old.

How did one behave like a child? This was his mother. Wouldn’t she notice a difference?

“Not feeling well. Stiff,” he said, trying to keep it simple. Fewer words gave her less to analyze. It was harder for her to realize the difference. That response could belong to any child at any age.

He was on the verge of crying. He was sure she could tell. It went well with the scenario he was in and would not seem out of place.

Looking at her, face he squeezed his eyes shut.

This was his mother’s face, but this was not his mother. His mother had been a stately housewife. She had aged throughout the year but always kept her appearance neat.

He was sure his mother did a lot of work. Taking care of three children could not be easy. However, she never had this tired, worn look.

This woman was also younger than his mother.

The woman looked back at him. He wondered if he’d been too hasty and made a mistake. Close scrutiny was not what he needed. It was best if he could get more information.

This child had chores. It would be strange if he didn’t know what they were, much less what he had to do.

The woman walked towards him. He noticed that she had a slight limp. He hadn’t been paying attention enough to notice before.

This was another thing that differed.

Nathair couldn’t tell her age. A permanent sort of stress hung around her.

The corners of her mouth and eyes were tight. Deep crows feet spidered out from both. This impression was deepened when she frowned.

Sitting in front of him, she raised her hand to his forehead, taking his temperature.

He took the chance to study her up close. He did not have the energy to care about what sort of impression he was giving off.

On closer inspection, there were other differences between them. This woman and the woman he remembered as his mother.

This woman was prettier than his mother. Their hair color was different. Mahogany-colored hair was pulled in a bun. Stray hair curled haphazardly about her head. Trying to escape the confines of her chosen hairstyle.

Her eyes were a stunning shade of purple with flecks of gold.

A part of him hoped that she was wearing contacts, but he had a sneaking suspicion she wasn't.

On the top of her nose, there was a sunburnt patch of skin. The rest of her skin was pale. Despite her skin looking wan, it also managed to look weathered. Like she spent a lot of time outdoors.

Her hands were rough, and the hem of her skirt carried mud stains. This woman had a hard life. Her outdoor activities were not recreational.

“You’ve got a fever,” her voice was even and hard. “This is why I told you to make sure to come back to the house. What were you thinking, sleeping out here in the cold? It could have been the death of you. There was even snow last night.” Her fingers worried the tattered sleeve of her dress.

Snow? He recalled the cramped feeling he’d experienced earlier. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

The woman turned around, squatting in front of him. She made the universal piggyback pose.

“Get up. Let's get you back to the house. Hopefully, it’s nothing serious. Your dad’s already in the field.” She sounded tired. “I wanted you to watch your sister. I’ll have to carry your sister into town with me.” Her voice didn’t leave room to guess. It was clear she was disgruntled.

Field? Town? Sister? He staggered over to her before draping his body across her back. His actions resembled that of a sick boy. That was not the case. Rather it was the shock of a man that woke to find himself trapped in a kid's body.

Wait!

Hadn’t he been reborn?

He wasn’t trapped in a different body!

This was his body.

Why didn’t he have his memories?

Nathair stuck his head into her neck. He felt reluctant to look at the world around him. It would make what he was experiencing real. If he did that, he would have to stop burying his head in the sand.

They stepped outside. A stiff wind was blowing. It caused him to shudder. He took a peek at his surroundings and slammed his eyes shut after just a glance. What the hell. What was up with the world around him?

He took another peek. This time his eyes widened in wonder. Snow lined the ground. There were expanses of wheat, stretching out for miles. This was strange but wasn’t what caused him to stare the most.

It was the chickens that he couldn’t help looking at. He wasn't even sure if ‘chicken’ was the right word to call them.

One walked over. It stood as tall as this woman's waist. Its feathers were a flame red color with blue tips. Even more shocking, its feet were on fire. It walked around melting snow with each step.

Nathair must have leaned too far over because the woman shifted him. Centering him on her back once more. He couldn’t help but twist and look at the chickens once more.

After he could no longer see them, he focused his attention on the house in front of him. It was a simple log cabin, but just like the chickens, it caused him to stare. No matter how the snow fell, not a single flake stuck to the house.

What sort of world was this? He promptly closed his eyes and buried his face back into the woman's neck. He’d worry about it later. He needed to recover from his fever. Then he would decide what to do next.

He drifted off to sleep as his body relaxed. It was as if a weight had been lifted off of his shoulders.