Chapter 1

2 Days

I crapped myself.

That was the first thing I noticed when I regained consciousness. Something warm was spreading below my waist. I tried to tighten up and stop the humiliation, but it was no use—my body wouldn’t cooperate. So, yeah, no doubt about it, I had just shit myself, and there was nothing I could do to stop it.

Panic mixed with a strange sense of relief. Not the kind of relief my gut was experiencing, but something else entirely.

I was alive!

That alone was a miracle, especially considering what I’d just been through—a gunshot to the head, no less.

I tried to move my arms, but something was holding them down. I had to muster all my strength just to lift my head slightly and take a look at my body. For some reason, my head felt way too heavy for my neck. It turned out I was wrapped in some kind of sheet up to my neck, like a swaddled baby. Just a sheet. But my arms, neck, butt, and every muscle in my body were so weak that escaping from it seemed impossible.

I could only see the ceiling as I lay on something soft in what looked like… a bathtub? Something resembling a tub, at least.

Don’t panic! Stay in control. I forced myself to think clearly—thankfully, I still could. That meant my brain wasn’t damaged. Either that bastard missed or he wasn’t using bullets. Maybe tranquilizers? The main thing was, I was alive.

I was lying in my own filth, unable to break free from the sheet. I quickly dismissed the idea of paralysis since I could still feel my fingers and toes. Conclusion: they injected me with something to paralyze me. That’s why my sphincter wasn’t working. Not great.

Conclusion number two: I was a prisoner. That was even worse. I tried not to think about what they had planned for me to avoid spiraling into full-blown panic. I pushed away thoughts of being doused in acid or being buried alive in a coffin.

My entire life had led to this moment, lying in this disgusting mess. It’s no surprise it might end this way.

You might ask how I got myself into this situation. It’s my own fault—stupid me.

Looking back now, I realize how pointless my life was. The only joys I had were drinking with my coworkers from the factory and playing poker with them. Years of playing had convinced me of my exceptional skills. And with that came a "brilliant" idea: why not use my talent to make some extra cash?

I gathered all my meager savings and headed to an underground casino. Getting a seat at the poker table among the players wasn’t difficult; flashing some money was enough. That moment marked the beginning of the end for me.

At first, everything went incredibly well! I played like a pro. Within the first hour, my winnings had grown to the equivalent of a year’s salary. But then... I lost it all, every last cent. And if only I had stopped there. But no, the thrill of the game pulled me deeper, dragging me into a disgustingly deep pit of debt.

The very next day, I found out I owed money not just to anyone, but, of course, to the most powerful and dangerous guy around. Naturally. He showed up at my apartment in person, flanked by two thugs. The conversation was short: pay up in three days, or expect broken bones—if I was lucky.

Of course, there was no way I could come up with that kind of money. I weighed my options—whether I could live without my arms and legs in this tricky situation—and decided I couldn’t. So, I went for the extreme.

Robbery.

Five years after making that decision, I stepped out of the prison I barely survived. You’d think that would be the start of a new life, a fresh beginning. Yeah, right.

The moment I set foot outside, I noticed a jeep parked by the road. Out stepped the same powerful and dangerous guy—the goateed bastard with the ridiculous nickname "Suit."

“Leo Rutis!” He spread his arms wide and walked toward me with a fake, cheerful grin. “You won’t believe it, I was just passing by and saw a familiar face!”

“No doubt,” I muttered under my breath.

My name comes with a bit of a backstory. My ancestors were from Lithuania. My father was in the military, and they moved around a lot. Their last transfer took them to Uzbekistan, where I was born. My mother named me Leonas, but I never liked it. As I got older, I changed both my first name and my last name, Rudzitis, trimming off the letters that grated on my ears. What’s left is this bit of exoticism.

“How was it?” Suit sneered. “Enjoy your time off?”

“Depends,” I replied.

“Well, then hop in the car. It’s time to get to work.”

Suit spun around abruptly, confident I’d follow him without question.

“I’m not looking for a job,” I said.

“Of course not,” he shot back, turning to face me again. “Because you’ve already got one.”

“Oh really?”

“You didn’t think I’d forgotten about your debt, did you?” Suit’s voice dripped with satisfaction. “I doubt you made enough in prison to pay me back. And the amount’s only grown since then. Inflation, interest, you know how it is. I’m not an idiot—I know you don’t have the money, and you’re not going to get it. So, you’re going to work it off.”

Suddenly, a massive bodyguard emerged from the jeep behind Suit, crossing his arms as he stared me down. Whether he was just too hot sitting in the car or wanted to add some intimidation, I couldn’t say. But if it was the latter, it didn’t work. After prison, there wasn’t much that scared me anymore.

“What kind of work?” I asked, resigned. I had a feeling that refusing might result in some serious bone damage, and I didn’t see another way out. Suit wasn’t going to let me off that easily.

“Whatever job I give you,” he growled. “For now, you’ll be moving cargo. We’ll see after that. Now get in the damn car.”

They didn’t bother telling me what I was transporting. Or rather, they told me it was refrigerators. They stuck a second driver next to me to keep an eye on things. I had no doubt he had a gun under his jacket, and I wasn’t about to test him.

I hadn’t even had time to “enjoy” my new form of slavery when the first trip went south. About halfway through the route, all hell broke loose. And by “hell,” I mean a real shitstorm.

Out of nowhere, a car swerved in front of my truck. A guy with an assault rifle leaned out of the window and opened fire on the cab. I ducked just in time, narrowly avoiding death—unlike my “partner.” The bullets tore through his face and chest.

I slammed the gas pedal to the floor and felt the truck plow into the bastards ahead. There was a loud crash and the sound of shattering glass. I looked out the window just in time to see their car flipping over on the asphalt.

It seemed I was transporting something valuable because there were three cars chasing us. While one was busy crashing out, another pulled up alongside. Another burst of gunfire rattled through the cab door. I leaned over my dead “colleague,” reached under his jacket, and pulled out a gun. Blindly, I aimed out the window and emptied the entire magazine.

If there was ever a moment to talk about luck, that was it. Somehow, by some miracle, I hit the mark, and the second car went flipping down the highway. But that’s where my luck ran out. When I finally lifted my head, I saw that I was heading straight for the ditch.

What followed was a hellish ride—jolting around, banging my head on the cab’s ceiling, and a stream of curses. The truck miraculously managed not to roll over when it finally came to a stop. Seeing stars, I scrambled to get out as quickly as possible, but I barely made it a few steps.

One of the pursuers appeared in front of me. Without a word, he aimed a gun at my face and pulled the trigger.

Hmm. Looking back on it now, I’m pretty sure that was a real gun. So why am I still alive? I would’ve spent more time pondering that, but then I heard a loud cry cut through the silence—a baby’s cry, the kind that only a newborn could make.

The baby was close by, almost as if it were lying on the floor right next to my bathtub.

"Hey!" I tried to shout, but instead of my voice, I heard a tiny infant’s wail.

I tried again, but the voice remained the same, like I was being dubbed by a newborn. A wave of panic washed over me. What the hell had they injected me with to mess with my voice like this?

"Is anyone there?" I wanted to say, but instead, my mouth produced a long string of baby babble. "What the hell is this? What have you done to me?"

I kept crying out, but it was all just a baby’s cries—nothing more. The sound of my new voice fueled my anger, and I started screaming even louder.

"HEEEEEEEEYYYYY!!!!! You bastards! You goddamn bastards! I’ll kill you all!"

The furious screaming went on for minutes, and then I realized I wasn’t alone. A couple more voices joined in. A wild thought crossed my mind: these weren’t babies; they were prisoners like me. I wasn’t the only one drugged with whatever this was—there were at least four or five of us in the room. But that didn’t make it any better. I felt an endless supply of energy, and I could’ve cursed my captors forever, when suddenly…

"Hello, my little one," a disturbingly familiar, gentle voice sounded from above. Suddenly, a massive woman’s face filled my entire field of vision. I immediately fell silent, staring in horror at the head that could only belong to someone at least twenty feet tall.

The giant woman picked me up and held me close.

"Who's crying here?" she asked, her voice familiar yet unsettling. "Although, you're not crying anymore. As soon as you saw me, you went quiet."

"He recognized his mom, it seems," someone else commented from the side.

I twisted my head to look at the woman holding me. I could hardly believe my eyes—it was her! My own mother! Young and beautiful, she looked like she was barely twenty. She smiled down at me, a smile that made my heart sink into my stomach. My thoughts were a jumbled mess, my brain refusing to comprehend how my mother, now over six meters tall, was here, and what the hell was going on.

"Uh-oh, smells like someone left Mommy a little surprise," she said, placing me back in the bathtub. She started to unwrap the sheet, removed the dirty diaper, cleaned me up, sprinkled some powder on my bottom, and then wrapped me back up. I watched the entire process in stunned silence, eyes wide. My thoughts were chaotic, but they all pointed to one thing: I must be hallucinating.

Back at the factory, almost every night, I’d get together with my colleagues and drink heavily. We’d always share stories, and one drinking buddy once told us about a special kind of drunken state he experienced. He swore he walked on the moon, hand in hand with a young Madonna, picking diamond flowers until a spaceship came to take them away. What if I’d fallen into some similar delusional state?

"Now we're all clean and smelling nice. Time to introduce you to someone."

Mom picked me up again and started carrying me somewhere.

As confusing as everything was, I couldn’t help but feel a wave of joy at seeing my mother’s face again. I’d been a terrible child, treated her poorly, and never once told her how much I loved her. And then she was gone—far too soon. I regretted it every day of my life. Maybe that’s why my mind was showing me her now?

"I love you, Mom," I said, but all she heard was another string of baby babble. She just smiled in response.

For some reason, I thought that the conditions of a hallucination were met, and I would finally snap out of it. But then I started to reconsider. If this were truly a hallucination, would I even realize I was hallucinating? I’d heard before that a madman never admits he’s mad. So if I’m sure I’m hallucinating, maybe I’m not hallucinating at all?

That was something to ponder, but my mom carried me into another room, and what I saw next hit me like a ton of bricks.

“Meet your daddy, little one,” she said, turning me towards a man who instantly broke into a joyful smile.

It was the first time I’d seen my father in person. The very same face my mom had shown me in a photo just before she passed away. My father died in a car accident when I was eight months old. A ZIL truck hit his motorcycle at full speed while he was on his way to work. I never got to meet him in my conscious life.

“What a handsome little guy,” my dad cooed. “Just like his mommy.”

I noticed the motorcycle helmet tucked under his arm. The visor was down, and when I looked at it, I saw my reflection. My eyes widened even more.

That was the moment I realized this wasn’t a hallucination, and I wasn’t dreaming. A deep-seated belief in the reality of what was happening took root in my mind. Everything around me was real, everything was actually happening to me. I couldn’t explain why I believed it, but I did!

Staring back at me from the reflection was an infant.

It was me!

My mom and dad weren’t giants, the bathtub was just a regular crib, and I wasn’t wrapped up like a baby—I was a baby!

“Our little Leonas,” my dad said, setting the helmet aside and taking me into his arms.

I didn’t need much time to figure out what to do next. I was in a maternity ward, and given that they were just introducing me to my dad, I couldn’t have been more than a day or two old.

It was time for absolute, all-encompassing, unfiltered panic.

“AAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!” This time, what I intended to say matched exactly with what came out of my mouth.

I was doomed.

Completely and utterly screwed.

And, by the way, I crapped myself again.

Chapter 2

1 Month

The last month has been the worst of my life.

And I mean the worst! And that's coming from someone who spent five years in prison, where in the shower, your soap often ends up on the floor, and seven guys wait, lurking, for you to bend down and pick it up.

I was messing myself every two hours. When my mom changed the diapers, I could tolerate it to some degree. But when my dad took over, I was boiling with anger and shame. Why would any man willingly change diapers when his wife is right there? I just don’t get it.

Every single second in that damn crib drove me insane. All I could do was lie there, wrapped up in a sheet. Every time I drifted off to sleep, I wished I’d wake up from this nightmare, back in my adult body. But every time I opened my eyes, I saw the same crib and smelled the same crap-filled diaper.

And the nightmare didn’t end there. My mom kept trying to shove her breast into my mouth. Don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against a woman’s breast, especially a young, firm one like hers. But come on, people, this is my mother! That’s the kind of thing that could really mess up my already fragile psyche.

There was no avoiding it though. I didn’t even have the strength to close my lips. And once that nipple got into my mouth, milk would start flowing. I’ll admit, the baby’s taste buds that I was stuck with really liked the milk. But the whole situation made me sick to my stomach. To survive it and keep from losing my mind, I’d close my eyes and imagine it was Alice’s breast—the first girl I ever loved.

The breaking point came with moments when my parents were having sex just a meter away from me. My father, trying to make up for the last six months, took every opportunity.

“What are you doing?” I heard my mother’s voice through the crib’s wall. “Leonas is right here.”

“He can’t see anything. Even if he does, he won’t understand.”

“But he’ll hear… please, don’t…”

“We’ll be quiet. Very… quiet…”

After that, my mother stopped replying. I could hear kisses, the creaking of the bed, and frequent moans. I couldn’t even free my hands from the blanket to cover my ears.

Staring at the ceiling, one question kept spinning in my mind, and it was a perfectly reasonable one.

Why!?

Why is this happening to me? I don't believe in some bearded old man in the sky. Is this his way of getting revenge because he didn't like something? Can atheism really be punished this severely? I'm not the worst person in the world. Not the best either, but there are far worse people. Maniacs, murderers, pedophiles, politicians—they’re probably lounging in hell, enjoying a break in boiling tar, spinning on a spit. What makes me worse than them? Why is this cruelty directed at me?

In the early years of prison, I had two complete idiots targeting my backside. They broke my ribs, arm, nose, and jaw, but they couldn’t break my spirit. Now I was hanging on by a thread. I was on the brink.

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And yet, I couldn't help but notice how my miserable situation was benefiting my mother. Babies are expected to be fussy for months. I, however, was not a complainer. Over the past four weeks, I hadn’t cried once at night or thrown tantrums; I only made noise when I couldn’t stand the stench of another dirty diaper. I could probably claim the title of the calmest baby in the world. My parents were thrilled.

If only they knew how much I was cursing every second of my torturous existence.

4 Months

“He’s sitting up! Honey, come here quickly, he’s sitting up!”

Mom walked into the room, glanced at the crib, and stared at me with her mouth wide open. I was sitting up unsupported, shaking a toy for extra effect, showing off my impressive balance. And this at just 4 months old!

Dad rushed into the room and stared at me in disbelief.

“I was just thinking it was time to start teaching him to sit, and he’s already doing it!”

Oh, Mom. I’m ten years older than you; who’s really teaching whom here?

“This is incredible,” – Dad said – “our boy is a genius!”

“How did he learn to sit so quickly and without our help?”

To be honest, Mom did help me with this, albeit indirectly. Did you know that breast milk is like a biofactory? It contains so many beneficial elements that no formula can compete. Doctors recommend exclusively breastfeeding for the first six months. How did I know all this?

I was fed up with nursing almost immediately. Enduring it for six months was simply unacceptable. I dreamed of fried potatoes and cheeseburgers so much that McDonald’s haunted my dreams.

I managed to come to terms with my nightmarish situation. Of course, I often wondered how insane my situation was, whether I was dreaming while lying in a coma, and many other things. However, I forced myself to accept the new reality and adapt to it. And if I was truly destined to live in a baby’s body, I decided to get through this phase as quickly as possible. A key factor in this decision was the neighbor who showed up at Mom’s one evening.

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

This happened a couple of months before my big breakthrough. It was then that I first saw a glimmer of light in the darkness of my miserable life. The neighbor brought Mom a book that detailed the care of a one-year-old child.

“Such a cute little baby. How adorable,” the neighbor cooed, pinching my cheeks. I had never hit a woman before, but I felt like I could make an exception for her. In my situation, such treatment only fueled my anger.

We were in a tiny kitchen, barely fitting around the dining table. My parents had kindly invited the neighbor for tea, and Mom thought it necessary to have me in her arms.

“How many months has he been now?” the neighbor asked.

“One and a half,” Mom replied.

“Already a whole one and a half months without letting Mom and Dad get any sleep?” The neighbor’s voice became even more irritating in its baby talk.

“Quite the opposite,” Mom smiled. “He hasn’t woken us up once. He only fusses when it’s time to change his diaper. A truly saintly child.”

Yeah, a saintly 30-year-old baby who spent five years in prison. The pride of any mother.

“Oh, come on, that can’t be true. Not once? I remember my child cried like a banshee until he was baptized. How is he eating? Does he make any fuss?”

“He is eating like a champ. No tantrums whatsoever,” said Mom.

“You’re just incredibly lucky. Oh, how cute!” The neighbor started pinching my cheek again. I was so filled with rage that I think I could have strangled her with my bare hands. But I only managed to force a sweet smile.

“By the way, does this book happen to say how long you should breastfeed?” Mom asked, which was a question I was very interested in.

“It has everything,” the neighbor replied proudly, opening the book. “It was created by a real genius. Let’s check the ‘Feeding’ section.” She flipped through the book and found the right page. “Here we go. Let’s read. It’s recommended to breastfeed exclusively until six months, without adding any other foods or drinks. However, at five months, under certain conditions, you can start introducing solid foods, but only after the baby shows readiness for such foods and only in minimal amounts.”

I’m ready, ready! Just give me a piece of fried meat!

“What are the signs of a baby’s readiness for solid food?” the neighbor continued. “First: The baby can sit with support. Second: The baby can hold their head steadily. Third: Shows curiosity and readiness to eat when food is brought to their mouth. Fourth: Can move food around in their mouth from side to side on their own. And fifth: Brings hands and other objects to their mouth.”

This news absolutely made my day! I had a new goal—to earn any food that wasn’t milk as quickly as possible. To accelerate my maturation. Yes, my baby body seemed to be fine with it, but my adult mind was already nauseated. Three out of the five criteria were already met; I just needed to learn to sit and hold my head steady. Where have you been all this time, neighbor?

That same day, I began intense training. An added benefit was that Mom started wrapping me up in a blanket less frequently. This was a relief. My first step was to regularly exercise my neck and stomach muscles, which was as difficult as geometry in school. At the same time, I worked on my arms, so to speak, using a toy as a substitute for a dumbbell.

After a few weeks, I managed to flip over onto my stomach with difficulty and could even do a quarter of a push-up a day. Quite impressive for a two-month-old. The training was complicated by Mom's constant presence. It was psychologically dangerous to do anything with her around. She might have even taken me to the doctor if she saw me working on my biceps. Therefore, I had limited time for solo practice.

Undeterred, I practiced even at night when the parents were asleep. For weeks on end, I prepared my body for a stable sitting position. I would flip onto my stomach, tuck my knees under me, push with my hands, but kept falling onto my side. Discouraged by this method, I decided to try a new strategy. I started using the crib's backrest for support. That’s when things began to progress.

By the third month, my neck muscles were strong enough to hold my head upright. A month later, my back muscles caught up. Now I could sit without any support and remain comfortable for many minutes. My parents were pleasantly shocked, and I kept waiting for Mom to consider feeding me something other than milk. I was eager to move past this stage of life as quickly as possible.

5 Months

It turned out I had rushed and strained my baby back for no reason. Before the fifth month, I received nothing but milk. You see, the book stated that solid foods could be introduced only from the fifth month, not earlier. None of the five clear signs of my readiness for solid food changed that.

So, one fine day, instead of the breast, Mom shoved a spoonful of some kind of porridge into my mouth. It looked like prison stew, but my baby body actually liked the new dish even more than milk. Not a cheeseburger, of course, but at least it was something.

The fifth month was memorable not just for the expansion of my diet. One day, another neighbor came over, whom Mom had met while taking me out in the stroller. She had a six-month-old daughter on her lap. My parents decided it would be a great idea to sit us side by side on the bed. They stood next to us and watched with interest to see how we would interact.

I came to an unexpected conclusion that, despite my desire to grow up as quickly as possible, as long as I remained a baby, I had to act the part.

To keep Mom from thinking I was developmentally delayed, I had to regularly play the role of a little kid. This meant responding to games with the parents, laughing goofily when tickled, playfully discovering the world, putting everything I could grab into my mouth, and so on. On one hand, I felt incredibly silly; on the other, I saw how happy my behavior made my parents. This made my anger subside a bit and made it slightly easier to endure the next day.

Our moms gave us a few toys. I took mine and pretended to play with it. The girl next to me looked longingly at hers.

“Leonas, look at the pretty girl. Her name is Latifa.”

“They’re all cute when they’re little. But once they grow up, they’re scarier than a nuclear war. Of course, there are some wonderful exceptions.”

Latifa’s mother sat down next to her daughter and began enticing her with a doll. The little girl grabbed the toy and threw it away. Clearly, she wasn’t in the mood.

“It’s like this all the time,” the neighbor said to my mother. “She keeps throwing things away, nothing seems to interest her. I’m thinking maybe I should take her to the doctor.”

“Don’t worry, she’ll start playing in time. Every child develops differently. I’m reading a book about children that says some don’t start talking until they’re three years old. And they turn out to be perfectly normal, healthy people. How is she doing in other areas?”

“Seems to be fine.”

“Well then.”

I’m not sure why, but I turned to Latifa and gently touched her shoulder with the toy. Maybe it was because the parents were expecting some sort of interaction from us, and I didn’t want to disappoint my mom by showing my sociability. I thought a real child might show communication this way. After a few touches, Latifa suddenly turned to me and said:

“You’re a stupid idiot. Get that damn rattle away from me, or I’ll shove it up your ass.”

In shock, the toy fell from my hands.

Chapter 3

I stared at Latifa with wide eyes, unable to believe what I had just heard.

“You can talk!?” I exclaimed.

“Holy shit!” Her eyes were wide with shock. “Are you reincarnated too?”

To an outside observer, our conversation sounded like typical baby babble. The parents laughed, charmed by our “interaction.”

“This is insane,” I said.

“Damn, if you’re an adult, what the hell were you doing with my shoulder?”

“Playing the role of a baby. You might want to do the same; your mother is already worried.”

“I couldn’t care less about her; she’s not my mother.”

“What do you mean?”

“What do I mean? I’m stuck in this baby’s body because that woman gave birth to it! My advice? Learn to walk as quickly as possible and get out of here.”

“Why?” I asked.

“You’re not baptized yet, right?” Latifa replied.

“Let’s say I’m not. So what?”

“Want to know what happens when you get baptized?”

I glanced at the parents, who were chatting and observing our “interaction.”

“And what happens?” I asked.

“About a month ago,” Latifa said, nodding towards her mother, “she took me out for a stroll. We passed by three other strollers, and while she was chatting with the other moms, I started venting my frustration about the little brats. Imagine my surprise when one of them responded. Just like you are now. He turned out to be reincarnated too. In his past life, he worked in construction and a slab fell on his head. He woke up in the hospital, thinking he had survived. But nope, he reincarnated.”

“And the others?”

“They stayed silent. Looks like they’re truly living their first lives. I was excited to have a kindred spirit to talk to and keep my sanity. But then they baptized him.”

“And what happened?”

“He disappeared, just like that. The little kid stayed, but the construction worker was gone.”

Latifa waved her little hands amusingly and made cute noises, which only made the parents smile.

“I saw him later, but he didn’t respond to me,” Latifa continued. “He just mumbled something. I thought about it a lot afterward. I think when you die, your soul transfers to a newborn. And when the baby gets baptized, the soul, so to speak, is cleansed of the past life and starts anew. So, I don’t know about you, but I plan to get out of here as soon as I can walk.”

“Hold on,” I said, taking a moment to process this unsettling information. “She’s not your real mother?”

I pointed at the neighbor.

“Look,” said my mother’s neighbor, “they’re probably talking about us.”

“How did you figure that out?” Latifa asked me, spreading her tiny arms. “Have you become as clueless as a baby while living in its body? My real mother lives in Poland and has probably been heartbroken for the last six months. I’m sure she’ll take me in when she hears from me. Do you still have relatives from your past life? Anyone to go back to?”

“This is my life! I lived thirty years before someone shot me in the head. And I woke up in the maternity ward, in my own body, only as a baby.”

“Damn,” Latifa said, her face showing as much shock as mine did after her story. “That’s just mind-blowing.”

“Can’t argue with that. It’s hard to imagine a worse punishment.”

“Are you completely clueless? Don’t you realize how lucky you are? I’d give anything to start my life over. You have the chance to change things, fix mistakes, improve your future.”

“And manage all that before baptism? I’m curious, how? Got any tips?”

“Big baby. Figure something out. Or don’t. I don’t care. I have a plan.”

“Your plan is crap. Fine, you might escape from your mom in the yard. And then where?”

“The further, the better. The main thing is to get out of the city. Then someone will take me in, even if it’s an orphanage. Anything is better than dying. And when I’m a teenager, I’ll find a way to escape to Poland to my mom.”

I suddenly felt sorry for Latifa’s mother—not the one in Poland, but the one standing next to mine. Deep down, I wished that she would baptize her daughter as soon as possible, before Latifa learned to walk. I had nothing against Latifa, but it was frightening to imagine what was happening to the heart of a woman whose child had vanished without a trace during a stroll. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.

Since my rebirth, I had become very sentimental about mothers. After talking with Latifa, I realized that I was already making some changes. I was making my mother a little bit happier with my behavior. I wanted to believe that after my baptism, the baby I was inhabiting wouldn’t grow up to be the same jerk I had been. I hoped he would treat his sole parent better.

Hmm… Sole parent?

My emerging thought was interrupted by the neighbor. She picked up her daughter and started saying goodbye to my mother.

“What’s your name again?” Latifa asked me.

“Leonas. But in the future, I’ll shorten it.”

“Going to be Leo?”

“Yep.”

“Ah…”

“And what’s your name? The old one?”

“Ella. I’ll get it back when I get the chance. Who even names their child ‘Latifa’? It’s complete nonsense.”

“I like it. It sounds exotic.”

“Go to hell.”

That’s how we parted ways. That night, I had a lot to think about. Meeting Latifa had changed everything. For the first time in five months, I wasn’t cursing my sad predicament before falling asleep. I knew that it would all be over soon.

I hadn’t been afraid to die from the beginning. Following Latifa’s example, running away from my mother, wasn’t even a thought. No, I wouldn’t dare upset her like that. My date with death had been set, and I was ready to accept it. My mother had said that I was baptized after my father’s death. And my father left us when I was eight months old…

And then I remembered. That very thought that the neighbor had interrupted. My father was supposed to die in three months. Supposed to, but not necessarily? How had this idea never occurred to my dumb skull before? An image from a cartoon flashed in my mind, where a character realizes their stupidity upon seeing an ass’s head in the mirror instead of their own.

The tragedy hadn’t happened yet. And damn it if I wasn’t going to do everything in my power to prevent it. In my new and very short life, I had a goal. And it was worth all the suffering I had endured.

7 Months

October in Tashkent, where I was born and, for now, lived, was delightful with its warm weather. Taking advantage of Uzbekistan's pleasant climate, mothers happily took their little ones out to the yard. I was no exception.

We often crossed paths with Latifa when our mothers kindly left us in the sandbox. Other mothers were greatly surprised that children so young were allowed to play in the sand. Our parents, however, proudly noted how much smarter we were compared to our peers, not eating the sand or getting covered in it. Playing with a bucket and making sandcastles, I was able to calmly chat with an adult person in a girl’s body.

I had to answer many of her questions about the future, share details of upcoming important events, and provide various kinds of information. She was often surprised, disbelieving some things, but tried to remember every word I said. The information I provided was of immense importance for her plans.

In turn, she talked about her walking practice and boasted about her progress. Her leg muscles allowed her to take a few steps already. I admired her achievement, despite her plan to run away. My admiration was also due to the fact that I had been working on strengthening my legs for the past two months to learn to walk. But even though I had no problems with coordination, my muscles only had enough strength to stand for a short time.

Learning to walk as quickly as possible was the first item on my plan to save my father. Crawling would be of little use. He was supposed to have a motorcycle accident in just three weeks. I knew the exact date, as I had visited his grave many times, and the numbers were etched into my memory.

My questionable progress was accompanied by quite a lot of tooth pain. My front teeth started coming in unexpectedly and at a very inconvenient time. With my child’s body and heightened sensitivity, it was not easy to endure. But I managed.

I didn't stop giving my weak little legs a monstrous workload. Prolonged reflection led me to realize that saving my father could fundamentally change my fate. My mother wouldn't be left alone, suffering, and falling into years of depression. She wouldn’t have to fend for herself, struggling to make a living. I would grow up receiving full parental love and care and might not end up as a criminal. These thoughts gave me motivation to push myself as hard as I could.

My overall plan, “Save Father,” had only two main points. The second was the actual saving. Details were still in the early stages of development. The most I could come up with was to steal my father’s motorcycle keys at the right time. Observations showed that he consistently hung them on a hook in the hallway. The problem was that the hook was placed at a height unreachable for me. How to get to it and, ideally, do so unnoticed was still a mystery.

“Use a chair,” you might say? People, I'm not that dumb, and I thought of that right away. But! Even if I managed to climb it, which is unlikely, my tiny frame still wouldn’t be enough to reach the keys.

In any case, to carry out the plan, walking ability was essential. And since time was running out, it was necessary to put in a serious effort. I was facing some tough weeks ahead.

8 Months

I lay at night with my eyes open in the same bed as my parents. My heart pounded as wildly as it had only a few times in my life. The reason: my father's life was at stake, and it depended on my actions. The next morning, he was supposed to get on his motorcycle, go to work, and crash on the way.

Over the past three weeks, my plan for saving him had acquired many details. I was fully prepared to make changes to my future. First of all, I had been able to walk and even run for a week. When my mother saw me standing on my own, she started helping me with my practice, and things progressed faster. She often read aloud from a book given by the neighbor, from which I learned that children generally start walking around nine months. I had managed to do it at seven and a half, which surely pleased her.

Every time we went outside, I preferred walking to using the stroller, and my mom didn’t mind. Thus, an important part of the plan was successfully accomplished.

Following the ability to walk came a pleasant surprise. My father brought home a potty. Yes, the same one that’s a toilet for kids. I immediately grabbed it and demonstrated my readiness to use it. My parents were in shock: perhaps I had been too quick to reveal my knowledge of the potty’s functions, but I could no longer endure the stinky diapers. Shrugging, they considered me a very smart child, and from that day on, I was freed from the greatest problem of life—soiling myself. Fortunately, my sphincter was very cooperative, giving me enough time to reach the potty. It turned out to be a wonderful month.

The next step in the plan to save my father was to "reach the keys." To accomplish this, I had to endure quite a bit of trouble. The chair played a crucial role in the plan, as there was simply no other way. Having learned to walk, I began dragging it from the kitchen to the hallway and placing it against the wall under the keys. Several times, I managed to climb onto it (yes, I had also worked on my upper body strength), when my mother was busy in the kitchen. After a few such practice sessions, I was confident that I could get onto it at the right time.

My mother moved the chair back to the kitchen a hundred times, but I kept dragging it back. After five days, she had to resign herself to the new location of the chair, and she left it alone. Fortunately, there were plenty of chairs in the house without this one.

Climbing onto the chair, I realized that my small stature still wouldn’t reach the hook. My little spatula, which I used to poke at the sand, didn’t help the situation either. The solution came unexpectedly. My mother was cooking dinner using a kitchen spatula. After cooking, she left it on the countertop, which I managed to reach. The kitchen spatula was twice as long as my little one and was perfect for the operation with the keys. I hid it under the bed in the room to use at the crucial moment. Pretty clever, huh?

I pondered for a long time about when would be the best moment to steal the keys without my parents "catching" me in the act. I was under almost constant supervision, and I could only do it in the evening or morning when my father was home. But in the evening, I was overly attended to, and in the morning, my parents were rushing around the apartment, so I wouldn’t have had time even to climb onto the chair. After considering numerous options, I decided to execute the plan at night.

This part of the plan faced a small problem: the crib. I was unable to get out of it. So, for the first time in eight months, I had to keep my parents awake. I screamed at the top of my lungs and reached out to my mother with my arms until she picked me up and placed me between herself and my father. Only then would I stop crying and fall asleep. I repeated this maneuver several times to solidify the plan.

On that crucial night, I lay between my parents, waiting for them to fall into a deep sleep. The plan was simple: quietly crawl out of bed, steal the keys, hide them somewhere, and return to bed without waking my parents. It sounded straightforward enough.

After waiting for an hour, I heard my father snoring and decided it was time. Inch by inch, like a caterpillar, I slowly wriggled to the edge of the bed. I turned onto my stomach, carefully slid down to the floor, and made sure my movements hadn't disturbed my parents' sleep. I quietly retrieved the kitchen spatula from under the bed, left the room, and carefully closed the door behind me. Taking small steps in the pitch-black darkness, I made my way to the hallway.

I placed the spatula on the chair, climbed up, and turned on the light. I reached out with the spatula toward the keys and sighed in relief: the kitchen tool, though barely, could reach them. Slowly, I began to move the keys with the spatula to the edge of the hook. To my frustration, the hook was bent and refused to let the keys fall off.

After about five minutes of poking at them with the spatula, my arm began to tire rapidly. I had to stop to catch my breath and listen to the bedroom. Silence.

Was that damn hook challenging me? I could retrieve brandy in prison, and here I was struggling with some damned keys! Fuming, I made a swift jab with the spatula and unexpectedly hit the target. The keys flew off the hook. But I had overlooked an important detail in my plan: there were several keys, and when they clanged together, they made an awful racket. In the dead of night, the noise seemed to exceed all limits.

"Honey, where's the baby!?" - To my horror, the clinking of the keys woke my mother. Without hesitation, I flipped the switch and turned off the light. - "Leonas!"

I quickly climbed down from the chair and began groping around on the floor in the dark.

Where the hell were those keys?

My mother turned on the light in the bedroom and opened the door.

Found them!

I dashed into the bathroom, which was combined with the toilet. And just in time: my mother was running into the hallway. Thinking quickly, I tossed the keys under the bathtub, took off my underwear, and sat on the potty. The next moment, my parents appeared in the doorway, looking at me with alarmed eyes. With an innocent expression, I continued to relieve myself in the potty.

It worked! What a relief! Surprised by how independent I was, my parents praised me but asked me to wake them up next time I needed to use the bathroom. With a sense of accomplishment, I slept the rest of the night in my crib.

The next morning, I was met with a predictable scene. My father was running around the apartment searching for the keys.

“Where could they have gone? I can’t be late today!”

“Where else could you have left them?” asked my mother, helping with the search.

“Nowhere, they always hang here!” he said dismissively, pointing at the hook and rummaging through the pockets of his jacket.

I lay on the parents’ bed, where my mother had left me, and smiled contentedly. Staring at the ceiling, I pondered the meaning of life. Humanity has been asking this question for centuries: what is the meaning of it all? Why do we live? I don’t know about others, but I knew why I lived. For that moment when I would hear my father’s words: “I’ll take the bus.”

Everything flipped inside me when my mother said:

“Don’t worry, we’ll find them later. For now, take the spare ones.”

SPARE ONES!?

Damn it! What are you doing, sending your husband to the grave yourself!

I jumped up in shock. The meaning of life seemed to go to hell if there were spare keys. I had to come up with something quickly.

My father came into the room, walked over to the sideboard, took a key from one of the dishes, and put it in his front shirt pocket. I quickly climbed down from the bed and blocked the way.

“Leonas, baby, I’m running late.”

My father tried to get around me, but I grabbed onto his leg.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

He pulled me off his leg and, holding me in his arms, headed for the door. I decided this was the moment and reached into his shirt pocket. The key was instantly in my hand, but my father noticed the theft immediately. While holding me with one hand, he tried to take the stolen item back with the other.

With no better ideas, I quickly shoved the key into my mouth.

“No, stop, Leonas!” Dad put me down on the floor and held his hand in front of my mouth. “Spit it out! You can’t eat it, spit it out!”

“What’s the matter?” Mom arrived on the scene.

“He put the key in his mouth. He can’t swallow it, spit it out!”

Mom started trying to reach into my mouth. I was torn between the option of swallowing the key and possibly choking or holding it in my mouth as long as I could, fending off Mom. The second option might give Dad a chance to avoid the truck. So, I chose that one.

I swatted away Mom’s hands and bolted for the room. They caught me as soon as I took a couple of steps.

“Leonas, spit it out!” Mom and Dad shouted in turn, trying to pry my mouth open.

Suddenly, I remembered a movie with the idea that the future cannot be changed. Even if a chance appears and you do everything to alter it, all your efforts lead to the same outcome. What if I was just stalling, and that’s why the truck would hit the motorcycle? Maybe if I did nothing, Dad would have passed before the truck and avoided the collision?

In an instant, I confused myself and didn’t know what to do next. Everything was resolved the next moment. Mom grabbed me tightly, inserted her fingers into my mouth, and pulled out the key. Dad quickly took it and rushed out.

“Love you, see you tonight!” Dad shouted over his shoulder.

“Dad!”

Dad stopped. He turned around and looked at me with wide eyes:

“What did you say?”

I said “Dad,” and he understood me?

“He said ‘Dad’!” Mom shouted, starting to hug me. “My little one said his first word.”

Dad came back to me and bent down with a happy face.

“Say it again. Say ‘Dad.’”

“Dad,” I repeated, causing wild excitement in my parents.

“Simply amazing,” Dad smiled.

“After carrying him for so long and giving birth, his first word is ‘Dad,’” Mom joked, pretending to be offended.

“We’ll celebrate in the evening,” Dad said, kissed Mom, and headed for the door.

“Dad!” I shouted again, reaching out with my hand, but it didn’t stop him. Smiling as a farewell, he left the apartment.

Every passing minute seemed unbearably long to me. I worried about my father, continuing to hope that I might still be able to change the future. Why else would higher powers have put me into this tiny body?

After a few hours, the phone rang. It had never rung before noon. I watched in horror as Mom answered, her face changing as she brought her hand to her mouth in shock. Everything inside me shattered.

I hadn’t managed to save him; Dad was dead. How utterly useless I felt. Mom hung up the phone, quickly dressed me, picked me up, and we left the house.

Mom hurried down the street, but I noticed she was going in the opposite direction from the bus stop. My suspicions were confirmed when I saw that she was heading towards the house of… Latifa’s mother, who was in tears. Several other moms were following her.

“She went missing half an hour ago; we can’t find her anywhere,” Latifa’s mother cried.

“Don’t worry, we’ll split up and find her. Where did you see her last?”

“By the sandbox. I turned away for just a second… just a second…” She was overwhelmed with tears as the other moms tried to comfort her.

Latifa had indeed run away. The situation was distressing, but I felt only relief. It wasn’t about my father. A glimmer of hope awoke in me that perhaps he had managed to reach work safe and sound.

Perhaps I had managed to change everything after all.