Reincarnation
It
I felt, rather than saw, the light fall onto me. For at the moment I couldn’t see much at all. No…not much at all. Nothing but the dim memories and pasts that deluded my mind, poisoned my blood, ate away at my heart.
And I thought- this must be what it is like to die.
In stories, birth is usually the most foreshadowing event. It is either rainy, which is a cliché way to begin life, or it is bright and sunny, which is also cliché. My birth was neither. The winter sun was out, but it in no way made things bright, nor warm or sunny. Instead, it was merely showing the world the dead trees that stood in its way. But it was not an unpleasant day. In fact, though the day was told to me through stony lips and cold eyes, I can imagine it a very good day indeed.
The first child is born. A new life begins.
I was a loud baby. I cried when I was hungry. I cried when I had dirtied my diaper. I cried when I was bored. But mostly I cried for no reason at all. Just to be entertained by the person- who, later in life, I came to find was my mother- who came running and would pick me up, look me over hurriedly to find the reason I was crying, and when finding no reason at all, cradled me until I quieted.
Not much else of my new life was significant, until I turned two. And then my baby brother was born.
I have a distinct memory of the many days I sat over his crib, staring into the pink, ugly face, and wondering my little child-ish thoughts about what impish thing had been thrown into my life. Or maybe I had just been told so many times, and I only imagined thinking that.
Either way, the imp was in my life, and the imp grew. And since I had been the second most frequent face in its young life, I was its second mother.
I was not pleased that, once it learned to walk, it followed me around. Slowly, clumsily, maybe, but no matter how often I managed to get it out of my site, it somehow appeared back into it. I was certain that it could somehow smell my trail, like a dog.
“He is your brother, Kathira, call him by his name.” My mother had once chastised me for the name I gave my brother- “it”. So I called my brother the dreaded name- Tod. But whenever it was just me and him, he was it. And thus came the nickname, It.
As years rolled on and it was always just It and I, I learned to love him. Grudgingly, yes, and I would never admit it, not even to myself, but I loved him. The pink, chubby cheeks were soon gone, the bald, wrinkled head, replaced by porcelain skin and thick blonde hair. I was not jealous of him, for I was much more stunning than him. I had porcelain skin like his, but I had gotten my father’s black hair. When put together with my emerald green eyes, I could cause heads to turn. And I was only seven.
But the real adventures didn’t begin until I was eight, and It was six.
We had a small yard, but we had a little less than a mile of woods behind the house. Ever since I could go out of the house unsupervised I’ve wandered around in the woods, discovering little things that made me happy for the time. Pretty rocks, large leaves, a butterfly, a lizard. But I never went out of sight of the house. It trailed after me, determinedly climbing over rocks and logs to keep up with me, but having a lot of difficulty with it. I never waited for him, nor did I do anything to make It’s path easier. These were my woods, and It should have felt privileged to even be in them.
It seemed to know from the beginning not to touch. I could pick up and examine anything, but It could only look. Sometimes I was generous enough to let him look at a pretty caterpillar I found, or perhaps I might even point out a butterfly.
The thing that bugged me the most was that It did not stare at me enviously as I poked at lizards and tried to grab snakes. He simply watched, with a slight piqued interest, but with no obvious desire to feel it for himself. This was the main reason I wandered farther into the woods; I wanted to find something that It would want to touch, that he simply had to feel and examine for himself. And the second reason was that I was just plain curious.
I did it on one of those rare days when we were kept in because it was raining. My mother was busy with It, so I easily snuck out. While my mother thought I was upstairs sleeping, I was actually trudging farther into the woods than I have ever been before.
I didn’t bother stopping to look at anything. Rain pounded down on my head, and within five minutes my sweater was already soaked and rubbing against my arms. Still, I kept walking. Skillfully climbing over rocks and fallen trees, resting sometimes on a sodden tree stump, but never for too long. Finally I reached the long stone wall that marked the usual end of my journeys. Not this time. I carefully tested one rock with my hand, then slowly stepped onto it. With one swift movement I was over the wall and onto the other side.
I was a little disappointed.
I’m not sure what I was expecting. The sky to change color, the whole forest to glow golden and beautiful, maybe spot a new creature I hadn’t seen before. But that wasn’t the case. The woods stayed as gloomy and wet as it was before.
Yet, I was determined to find something amazing. I started walking again.
I’m not even sure when it started to happen. I didn’t even know it was happening. My mind started to wander off, into another dimension. I didn’t notice my body numb, didn’t notice as the cold sank into my bones, and I stopped shivering, my body deciding it unable to affect anything now.
The first time I stumbled pulled my out of my universe. My foot had caught on a tree root, sending me flying forward and face planting the moist dirt and leaves. I sat back on my heels, spitting things out of my mouth and wiping the mud from my face. It was then that I realized I could no longer see my house. I sat there, frozen like a deer in headlights, slowly looking around. My eyes continiously widened, until I could widen them no more, and then I simply closed them. I sucked in the cold air, feeling my lungs rattle in my chest slightly. They felt frozen like igloos, and it was hard to make them expand to allow more oxygen in. I coughed, then covered my mouth with my just as frozen hand, trying to warm the air coming into my mouth. It didn’t work.
I started to notice the frost in my bones, the numbness of my arm. I could no longer feel my fingers.
I may not have been the brightest child, in fact I was just barely passing in school. But I knew this meant trouble. And I only knew one thing to do.
I opened my mouth.
And screamed bloody murder.
I brought the wail out longer than my lungs allowed me to. I hung on to the last, strangled note, and then my breath died, and my voice with it.
I curled up next to the tree that had tripped me, trying to get away from the wind that send daggers of water onto me. And I laid there, shivering, waiting for someone to come rescue me. Because someone had surely heard me. Hadn’t they?
And I thought- this must be what it is like to die.
In stories, birth is usually the most foreshadowing event. It is either rainy, which is a cliché way to begin life, or it is bright and sunny, which is also cliché. My birth was neither. The winter sun was out, but it in no way made things bright, nor warm or sunny. Instead, it was merely showing the world the dead trees that stood in its way. But it was not an unpleasant day. In fact, though the day was told to me through stony lips and cold eyes, I can imagine it a very good day indeed.
The first child is born. A new life begins.
I was a loud baby. I cried when I was hungry. I cried when I had dirtied my diaper. I cried when I was bored. But mostly I cried for no reason at all. Just to be entertained by the person- who, later in life, I came to find was my mother- who came running and would pick me up, look me over hurriedly to find the reason I was crying, and when finding no reason at all, cradled me until I quieted.
Not much else of my new life was significant, until I turned two. And then my baby brother was born.
I have a distinct memory of the many days I sat over his crib, staring into the pink, ugly face, and wondering my little child-ish thoughts about what impish thing had been thrown into my life. Or maybe I had just been told so many times, and I only imagined thinking that.
Either way, the imp was in my life, and the imp grew. And since I had been the second most frequent face in its young life, I was its second mother.
I was not pleased that, once it learned to walk, it followed me around. Slowly, clumsily, maybe, but no matter how often I managed to get it out of my site, it somehow appeared back into it. I was certain that it could somehow smell my trail, like a dog.
“He is your brother, Kathira, call him by his name.” My mother had once chastised me for the name I gave my brother- “it”. So I called my brother the dreaded name- Tod. But whenever it was just me and him, he was it. And thus came the nickname, It.
As years rolled on and it was always just It and I, I learned to love him. Grudgingly, yes, and I would never admit it, not even to myself, but I loved him. The pink, chubby cheeks were soon gone, the bald, wrinkled head, replaced by porcelain skin and thick blonde hair. I was not jealous of him, for I was much more stunning than him. I had porcelain skin like his, but I had gotten my father’s black hair. When put together with my emerald green eyes, I could cause heads to turn. And I was only seven.
But the real adventures didn’t begin until I was eight, and It was six.
We had a small yard, but we had a little less than a mile of woods behind the house. Ever since I could go out of the house unsupervised I’ve wandered around in the woods, discovering little things that made me happy for the time. Pretty rocks, large leaves, a butterfly, a lizard. But I never went out of sight of the house. It trailed after me, determinedly climbing over rocks and logs to keep up with me, but having a lot of difficulty with it. I never waited for him, nor did I do anything to make It’s path easier. These were my woods, and It should have felt privileged to even be in them.
It seemed to know from the beginning not to touch. I could pick up and examine anything, but It could only look. Sometimes I was generous enough to let him look at a pretty caterpillar I found, or perhaps I might even point out a butterfly.
The thing that bugged me the most was that It did not stare at me enviously as I poked at lizards and tried to grab snakes. He simply watched, with a slight piqued interest, but with no obvious desire to feel it for himself. This was the main reason I wandered farther into the woods; I wanted to find something that It would want to touch, that he simply had to feel and examine for himself. And the second reason was that I was just plain curious.
I did it on one of those rare days when we were kept in because it was raining. My mother was busy with It, so I easily snuck out. While my mother thought I was upstairs sleeping, I was actually trudging farther into the woods than I have ever been before.
I didn’t bother stopping to look at anything. Rain pounded down on my head, and within five minutes my sweater was already soaked and rubbing against my arms. Still, I kept walking. Skillfully climbing over rocks and fallen trees, resting sometimes on a sodden tree stump, but never for too long. Finally I reached the long stone wall that marked the usual end of my journeys. Not this time. I carefully tested one rock with my hand, then slowly stepped onto it. With one swift movement I was over the wall and onto the other side.
I was a little disappointed.
I’m not sure what I was expecting. The sky to change color, the whole forest to glow golden and beautiful, maybe spot a new creature I hadn’t seen before. But that wasn’t the case. The woods stayed as gloomy and wet as it was before.
Yet, I was determined to find something amazing. I started walking again.
I’m not even sure when it started to happen. I didn’t even know it was happening. My mind started to wander off, into another dimension. I didn’t notice my body numb, didn’t notice as the cold sank into my bones, and I stopped shivering, my body deciding it unable to affect anything now.
The first time I stumbled pulled my out of my universe. My foot had caught on a tree root, sending me flying forward and face planting the moist dirt and leaves. I sat back on my heels, spitting things out of my mouth and wiping the mud from my face. It was then that I realized I could no longer see my house. I sat there, frozen like a deer in headlights, slowly looking around. My eyes continiously widened, until I could widen them no more, and then I simply closed them. I sucked in the cold air, feeling my lungs rattle in my chest slightly. They felt frozen like igloos, and it was hard to make them expand to allow more oxygen in. I coughed, then covered my mouth with my just as frozen hand, trying to warm the air coming into my mouth. It didn’t work.
I started to notice the frost in my bones, the numbness of my arm. I could no longer feel my fingers.
I may not have been the brightest child, in fact I was just barely passing in school. But I knew this meant trouble. And I only knew one thing to do.
I opened my mouth.
And screamed bloody murder.
I brought the wail out longer than my lungs allowed me to. I hung on to the last, strangled note, and then my breath died, and my voice with it.
I curled up next to the tree that had tripped me, trying to get away from the wind that send daggers of water onto me. And I laid there, shivering, waiting for someone to come rescue me. Because someone had surely heard me. Hadn’t they?