Six months…

Six months have passed…of…pure, absolute…boredom.

I’ve complained in the past that I was bored. Those were times when I couldn’t find a video game I wanted to play, nothing was on TV, I didn’t feel up for music, or I didn’t want to spend money going out with friends. It was more so that I was so saturated with things to do, the sheer burden of choosing made me lazy.

Now I truly know what it means to be bored.

For six months, I have literally done nothing. It has not been a personal choice. Trust me, a week into living as a baby, I tried desperately to get moving. My weak, little body wouldn’t have it. Ironically, I now abhor babies. Mostly because I am one.

Let’s put things into perspective, shall we? There is no technology in this world. It’s not like my parents can flick on a television to keep me company with the loud noises and colorful whatevers smashing about on a screen. I’d take even that at this point.

Heh, my current parents would likely be the ones that’d let a TV raise me anyways.

That’s beside the point. Every day is quiet. Even with the maid around, it’s not like we can converse. I watch her clean. She carries me a lot. Still, that isn’t the level of human interaction I crave, though it is better than nothing.

Beyond that, I cannot fend for myself. When I’m hungry, I’m forced to cry. Even then, it takes many, many minutes for anyone to hear me, especially if my maid is between tasks. She’s usually around, but she also has a job to do beyond caring for me. She cannot watch me twenty-four-seven, but my maid tries her best, and I appreciate her for that.

As for my biological mother, I see her a handful of times a day for breast feedings. It’s truly disgusting to do that given my knowledge and memory. She’s my mother in this life and I’m conscious of it. It’s not like I can eat solid food yet nor is there formula. What am I supposed to do? Starve? Thankfully, a puking baby is common and was common in the early days adjusting to my “diet.” Beyond that, I still have not seen my father since I was born.

It’s a genuinely terrible feeling forcing myself to unlearn a basic, human skill because it is expected of me, as a baby, to release my bowels into my undergarments. Truly repulsive, but it’s the role I’ve been reduced to in this pathetic state. I’d rather go to the bathroom or even do my business outside, but I cannot. Instead, I strategically wait until there is someone around to soil myself so that I'm changed almost immediately.

It has all been very degrading.

At least I can see again. It took about two months, but the blurriness went away and I started to see color. I can finally see details without struggling hard enough to give myself a headache.

What do I do in my free time? I think. Too much. Waaaaay too much.

The first month, I spent my waking days having emotional breakdowns. Pretty sure this is what isolation feels like in prison. I’m stuck in a room all day with no one to talk to and nothing to do. People bring me items when I whine; that’s basically all I have to alleviate my suffering.

Fortunately, I’ve found some things to keep me busy over the past few months.

First, I have come to terms with my death. I had no choice otherwise. Better sooner rather than later. It was traumatizing, admittedly, but acceptance came eventually. I’ve rationalized this existence. I am alive. I have been alive for months now. I don’t see that changing bearing some negligence on the part of my caretakers.

Once I grappled with my existence, I moved on to the loss of those closest to me, the life I once lived. Did I have a funeral? Who came? My mom? Scott? Were there a lot of people, or was it empty? Did I even get one? Was I cremated or buried? Was there even a body to be found? Or did people assume I disappeared?

All things I shouldn’t have to think about.

Mom probably took it the worst. All she had was me. I feel guilty. Even when I was up on the ledge, I knew that, yet I still wanted to jump. It was selfish of me, I know that.

Even then, I could not escape the feeling of being so entrapped in a life where I couldn’t find purpose or meaning. I wasn’t helpful. I wasn’t, as cliche as it sounds, a hero. So what was the point? I’d rather have jumped. In the end, I didn’t make that decision on purpose, but the result was the same anyways.

When I started thinking of mom, I began reflecting on the nature of parents. Is she still my mom? Is it this new woman and my new father? Is family something bound by blood or emotion? If I were to unveil my past, would that make my current parents strangers?

Like I said, I’ve had a lot of time on my hands. I’m running my own philosophy class in my mind twenty-four-seven. All I do is imagine things, come up with hypotheticals, and question existence.

Anyway...

Scott might miss me. I don’t want to say I hope he does. That seems mean, but I’m sure he does. Thinking back, I think I’m the only person that hung out with him at the office. We had a five-year age gap, but I was one of the oldest people in the office like him. It’s usually full of young attorneys.

Damn. Is he sitting at our bar right now drinking a beer? Or is that existence so unrelated to this that it couldn’t possibly be happening?

Miya lingered on my mind a bit. I was able to centralize my feelings on her. I always had an indication but finally internalizing how much she meant truly put things into perspective. “Love” was a strong word to use for her. In my last moments, I felt she was the only person I’d ever “loved” in that capacity.

Even I don’t think that’s true anymore.

No, I was in love with the person I thought she might make me. It was like I owed her something. In the end, she left like almost everyone else. Why did I care about her? Why did I focus so much energy on an absent person who was so willing to leave me? I’m not sure. Chalk it up to my internal weakness.

For better or for worse, I consider everyone in my former life “dead.” It’s easier that way. Better than dwelling on what I left behind. I doubt I can go back. I’ve had six months and countless days in one spot in a single room to think. To a baby whose consciousness hasn’t developed, this wouldn’t be anything terrible. Since I’m fully aware of time dragging by, my life is what I imagine solitary confinement is like for a prisoner.

I was distraught for a while. All I could do was cry, though it played off like normal baby-like behavior for anyone who checked on me. Everything I knew was gone. It was different than dying. I’d have moved on and left everyone behind. Now we’re separated forever and I’m aware of it. There’s no nap or afterlife. Just life. Again.

It took three months to rationalize this reality, say goodbye to the last one, and begin developing the next phase of my life.

Thankfully, I now have no desire to go back to “my world.” I messed up too badly. So much so that going back to being “me” would be a downgrade at this point, even as a baby. I was willing to kill myself. While sadly a normal human reaction, the extent to which I acted upon it was not. Maybe falling off the ledge was a blessing.

There’s no going back, only forward. Right now, I’m going to make do with this new reality, as painful as it is to leave everything behind.

This conclusion brought up many philosophical questions. Where did I go wrong? What could I have done differently as Felix to make things better? What can I do now as Scarlet to ensure a happy life? The only thing I can think of is what gave me any drive near the end of my first life. I want to help people. Somehow.

This time will be different. It has to be. I’ve mourned. Barring something incredible happening, I doubt this is a dream anymore. Rebirth. It happened. A second chance. I’ll do everything better this time, pursue things I desire, and find what my purpose is in life.

I was brought to this world for a reason, hopefully. What is that reason? Who am I? Who do I consider myself? Am I Felix? It’s hard to say. Am I Scarlet? I’m not sure about that either. I haven’t been her long enough.

Regardless of the answer, I’ll be starting over in a new world as a female. Based on my how my mother looks, I’ll be an admittedly beautiful female. That’s one tally for me. A pretty girl living life on “easy mode.” That’s benefit number one. My new name will take some getting used to. I kind of like the first name. Scarlet. It’s adding that last name that makes it sound weird. But whatever, it’s an inconsequential part of the whole charade.

The second tally is wealth. I’m living in a bonafide castle filled with maids to suit my every need.

Though I’ve complained about it, the final third tally is that it appears my parents will be very “hands-off” in the child-rearing department. That means I’ll generally be able to do whatever I like. I have nearly thirty years of experience locked inside my brain. I should be fine once I learn the lay of the land. Regardless of their knowledge, even as a baby, I’m more intelligent than them. Maybe not at some acutely specific things, but overall, yes, I’ll be an outlier in this reality. That is certain. Thankfully, everyone speaks and writes in a language I already know. Either my brain automatically downloaded the language on death, which makes no sense, or it was already the predominant language when I arrived. Honestly, I am not sure and it raises odd questions about this world beyond how someone can shoot fire from their hands. The end result is the same though; I don't have to learn a new langauge. It will make it easier to excel in this world.

Of course, a question did pop into my head when planning all this out. Should I tell anyone about my reincarnation?

Quickly, an answer came to mind.

Nope.

Not at all.

I don’t know if anyone would believe me. That’d honestly be the bright side. Because what if they did? Would I be killed? Dissected? Tortured for information? I’m not sure.

Outweighing those admittedly far-fetched negatives, I do not see any marketed positive reason to revealing my inner nature, even if nothing serious would come of it. All it does is ostracize me from this family and the lifestyle I’ll eventually have. If I’m going to rebuild my life, then I will need the resources my current parents will likely provide me, neglectful as they are.

Because of that, I have no qualms about taking advantage of them.

Education will be my priority, as it’ll be essential to living comfortably. I’m in a girl’s body trapped in a medieval fantasy world. I’m not sure how equality works in this time period. Still, I feel I should assume that there’s regression as compared to my former reality. If there isn’t, excellent, but I should make mental preparations regardless for the future.

I’ll present myself as a genius, but not so much so that my family thinks something is wrong with me. Wise women in olden times always got the “burn on a stick” treatment, and I’d very much like to avoid that if at all possible.

I have everything I need to ensure a better life for myself this second go around.

But baby steps, first. Literally.

Obviously, I need to first speak and communicate my intelligence to begin the path of education. I imagine having an intellectually driven daughter would be a benefit to a noble or wealthy family. Why not strive for it?

In all honesty, I was able to move slightly after my first month. In the second month, I was able to walk, though I hid it from others. It slightly alleviated my boredom, but my body was still too weak to climb out of my crib.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

Besides, if I got out, I’d have no way to get back in. And if I fell trying to leave, I could permanently damage my body.

It has taken a while, but six months in, I have complete control of my faculties, vocal chords included. Well, I had full control two months prior, but I thought a fully walking, talking baby four months after birth would set off alarm bells in my family’s heads.

If I vaguely remember, around eight months to a year, babies start to walk, so I set my end period of development for six months. It would be soon enough that I’d be seen as somewhat of a prodigy, but not so early that it’d be overly strange.

Now here I am, six months later, if my estimations are correct. I can fully vocalize sentences and thoughts as well as any adult. My motor skills are still weak, but I can walk. I’ll wait about two weeks after I introduce myself talking before adding that tidbit of excitement to my caregiver’s metaphorical scrapbooks.

Now all that I need is the maid to—

Footsteps sound in the hallways.

Ah! Speak of the devil! Right on time!

The maid enters my room as chipper as usual. Even with her plump yet firm frame reamed by a harsh, impoverished living, a smile adorns her cheek every time she sees me.

For the past six months, I’ve only had one “mom,” and it’s this woman. She said that would be so when I was born, and she was right. The woman clothes me, bathes me, takes me outside for walks, and supervises me when my mother feeds me. If pumps existed in this day, I’m sure my biological mother would use those so she’d never have to see me. That’s the vibe I get from her.

“Hellooooo Scarlet!” expresses the maid. She gently leans over my crib. “How’s my good girl? Huh?”

What am I a dog?

Eh, she’s sweet. I’ll let it slide.

Okay. Big moment. It’s time to shine!

My “first words” in this world have been plaguing my mind for a while now. It’s one of the many things I’ve been going over and over again out of sheer boredom.

I’ve spoken already, sure, but to myself in private for practice. I have a high-pitched voice that’s not really recognizable as my individual tone yet. It’s drastically different than the baritone that was my prior voice. Likewise, my voice as a baby will change as time goes on.

Damn. Guess I got to go through puberty again.

Wait.

Oh no.

Shit, it’s going to be so much worse this time! Estrogen and its accompanying side effects. My voice will get higher, and I’ll be weaker. My height probably won’t go back to the six feet I was used to. And…oh God…the bleeding…I…I hadn’t even considered that….

Don’t cry. It’ll be okay! That’s years down the road. Don’t dwell on it!

Okay. I’ll be fine. Focus on the present, Felix. Next steps. All you have to worry about is talking right now.

Whew!

Well, I assume it’ll take many months of talking before I develop a unique version of my voice. It’ll likely be inflected with this world’s dialect but heavily influenced by my former life’s experience. As a result, I think I’ll end up with no accent. Faking one would be too annoying. If I put on airs, it probably won’t matter too much.

That aside, I decided to say “mama” as my first words. Other words might beckon excitement from the maid, but she might not necessarily go get my family if I said them. “Mama” strikes right at the heart of the woman who birthed me, even though she in no way deserves the connotations of the word at this present time. Likely, she never will.

“Ma-Mama!” I squeak.

The maid blinks. There’s a pause. “Did you speak, Scarlet?”

“Mama!” I vocalize louder. I hold up my fists, smile, and release a fake giggle to ramp up the cute charms.

“Oh, dear! You spoke! You said ‘mama’!” The maid takes a step back from the crib. “Oh! I must get the lady! She’ll want to hear this!” She declares excitedly as she scampers out of the room.

Heh heh, all according to plan!

Carefully, I relax my face. The maid is gone for some minutes. In the meantime, I visualize old martial arts matches I participated in back in high school. Replaying stuff like that, old games, movies, and TV shows, has been my go-to when trying to cure my boredom. You can only think for so long before going crazy.

The only potential bright side is that, because all the literature in my head is likely “new” in this world, I could plagiarize it to make a quick buck if needed. I’ll keep it on the back burner, as there are concepts that might not apply to this world. Still, a little bit of editing. Bam! I’m rolling in independent cash flow.

This life is mine to do with as I please. I’ll sap in the culture, learn everything I can, then abandon this life for adventure!

Ahahaha! I cannot wait! First, though, growing up. All that takes is an endless amount of patience.

•

I replay myself choking out an opponent when rushing footsteps break my train of thought. I mentally “save” my match, though it means nothing, and attune myself back to the realm of the living.

There are many feet this time. Three sets? When you’ve been locked in a room for so long, your sense of hearing tends to increase ten-fold, especially when your vision doesn’t really play a part in your daily life. Most of my days have consisted of staring at the ceiling, and that’s made guessing sounds an aspect of my everyday life. I’ve gotten quite good at it if I do say so myself.

A shape emerges over my bed. My…father?

I am picked up. He holds me like a hot potato out before him. It’s like he’s never held a baby before even though I have first-hand experience that he has. Beside him, my mother stands eagerly. Both parents have gigantic smiles stretched across their faces.

“Can you say mama?!” asks my mother excitedly. She prods a tiny finger at my cheek.

Wow…how superficial can one get?

“Say mama!” orders my father excitedly. He gapes at me like he’s found a piece of gold.

Well damn.

For a moment, a part of me wants to hold my tongue for the remainder of my existence, at least in front of these two. The fact that they only want to see me now because I’ve done something special annoys the hell out of me.

I mean, I thought this would happen, but it still perturbs me that I was right. It would have almost been better if they didn’t come at all. Probably.

But I won’t do that. The maid will be the only one that gets punished.

Mentally, I prepare myself with an exaggerated internal sigh.

“Mama!” I say enthusiastically, pointing both my chubby little hands at my biological mother.

“Oh, Gods!” My mother snatches me from my father’s grasp. She immediately snuggles me into her chest, nuzzling the top of my head with her chin. It flattens the tufts of red hair beginning to grow from atop my head. “I knew you were special!” she says with more love than she’s provided me since birth.

Liar! You knew nothing, shrew! Hypocrite! What happened to that pathetic speech you gave me when you first put me in the crib, huh?! Why like me now!?

Wait, did she say ‘oh gods’? As in plural? Huh. So that’s the belief system in the country? Nice, old fashion paganism. Lovely.

“She’s gifted!” my father bellows.

Chill, people.

My mother is as beautiful as ever. Long red hair flows from her head. Big emerald eyes seemingly glow outward as she stares at me. She’s…gifted in the front. Since they’re my food source, I’m grateful. Disturbed, but grateful. Sadly, that’ll trickle down to me in the future. That’ll be awesome. Compared to my father, she’s short. Even compared to my maid, she’s short. I really, really hope my father’s genetics take over in that regard. Regardless, as a whole, she’s stunning. Almost shockingly so.

My father looks good, too. When I last saw him, he was a blurry, colorless shape. Now that I can see him with my cleared eyes…yeah, I’m going to be a really, really attractive girl. Father’s tall, probably about six foot or taller. I’d go with taller. Long, flowing black hair streams down his head. It seems almost wet in texture. Honey-colored eyes pierce forth from his face. He has sharp, defined features only further accented by a well-trimmed, tight beard. Everything about him screams “power.”

Oh, I’m going to have to beat back men with a fucking stick. Eww. Well, that’s awesome. I look forward to it…

“Never heard a babe talk so soon in my life. Have three kids of my own. The earliest one spoke was eleven months, yes sir!” says the maid.

“That’s because your family is poor,” mentions my mother cruelly.

There’s no evil in her eyes. She doesn’t intend to put the woman down, though she clearly is. No, she’s genuinely expressing her beliefs on the matter.

The maid’s expression darkens inappreciably. “Yes, ma’am.”

Wow, Mother’s a bitch.

“This is not an issue of being poor or rich. Gifted people can come from many walks of life, Madeline,” my father, surprisingly, says to my mother. “We are simply fortunate to have been blessed with a brilliant daughter. Hopefully, she’ll make up for the other parts of her that are insufficient.”

What would you know about the parts of me that are insufficient, asshole? What the hell does he even mean by that?!

My mother’s gaze dips to my father for a moment. It straddles over to the maid, back to my father, then droops imperceptibly in thought.

Hmmm. Did not expect him to interject like that, but he also isn’t telling her to apologize. He likely doesn’t care about the maid. More so that he cares about my mother’s misconception. Interesting. Tells me the kind of man he is.

But what the hell did he mean by “insufficient”?! Damn bastard. What about me is insufficient?!

Whatever. Time to throw out the big guns.

“Dada!” I squeal, directing my gaze towards my father. Who knows when I’ll see him again? It’s a risk, but if it accelerates my initial freedoms, it’s worth it.

Father’s eyes widen slightly, as does my mother’s. Even the maid seems taken aback.

“Dada!” I copy. My chubby little hands now wave around in the direction of my biological father’s facial hair.

“That’s two words,” Father mutters in astonishment. “She knows I’m her father? Haven’t I only seen her once?”

Oh damn. At least he knows. The way he said it does not give me confidence. Hmm. I thought throwing that in would be fine. I theorized that bad parents wouldn’t recognize their neglect. I’ve seen enough of that in Family court. It seems I was wrong.

“She’s brilliant!” my maid asserts. “Oh, I wouldn’t be surprised if she walked soon! Any child from yours two was bound to be gifted. No doubt in my mind. This is the Gods’ doing, my lord!”

That phrase “Gods’ doing” seems to trigger my father. His eyes widen. His profile, once full of shock, transforms into a wide grin. “A gifted daughter is more beneficial than one that is merely attractive,” Father credits me. His gaze flickers to my mother for a slight second. “It’ll make for a more pleasant marriage.”

Well damn. Yup. I’m in a broken home. A wealthy one, yes, but still very broken.

And marriage? Does he mean for his wife or me? Is he planning to marry me off? No way. I’m not even a year old. He wouldn’t be thinking about that yet. He must mean mother. That’s kind of cruel. What, was the marriage not pleasant before? Oh God, am I the glue holding them together? That would be tragic since neither seems to care that I exist except conditionally.

My father grabs me from my mother. I expect a hug or a kiss on the cheek, wincing in anticipation. Instead, I’m laid back in my cradle.

I blink in surprise.

Okay?

“Update us on her progress,” Father orders the maid.

The maid bows. “Yes, my lord.”

What the hell?!

Two sets of footsteps leave.

Once again, I am deserted by my parents in this life.

Yup. I officially hate them. Guess who’s not getting taken care of by their child in their old age? Those two bastards! Sheesh! Guess I’ll never be blessed with a normal family.

The maid leans over into my crib. Her smile alleviates some of my annoyance. “That’s a good girl, Scarlet. Well done!”

“Mama!” I denote the maid intentionally.

The maid sulks. She shakes her head. “I’m not your mama. Mama just left.”

“No!” I shriek. With my hands, I point at the maid. “Mama!”

The maid blinks.

“Ma..ma!” I designate the woman with both hands. There’s no smile on my face. No laugher. No chuckles. She’s the person who truly cares for me. I want her to know she’s earned that title in this world and that I recognize her as much as I can while staying in character as a baby.

The maid pauses.

Time passes.

The smile returns.

I smile back in response.