Saying the word Papa or Mama for the first time. Maybe even having a picnic under the shade of a tree as the blades of grass dance to the breeze and the calming warmth of the sun. Or maybe it was a playful game of tickling as kind smiles and cheerful giggles filled the air.
That's the scene for children as they begin to have their consciousness. What a peaceful way to become aware of the world, but for me, that's not the case.
Being torn limb from limb, forcefully starved to death, burned alive, and so much more—that's how I came to open my eyes to this world. My earliest memory is of crying, begging for mercy, as dozens of masked men strapped me to a cold wooden table.
My neck, my wrists, my ankles, naked and helpless as they cut my stomach open. I could feel their fingers swiping through my bowels and intestines, like a centipede crawling inside me. It made my skin crawl so badly I wanted to puke, but the pain was far beyond anything I could describe.
They would take out my organs, piece by piece, until I lost consciousness. When I woke up again, I was fixed—stitched together—and they would repeat the same process.
"Are you even listening?" I sighed, glaring at the girl who strapped my hands and feet while rummaging through my backpack.
"Yeah, yeah, how many years did that continue?" She barely seemed interested, her eyes only focused on the bag.
I had long ago grown used to the horrors of my life, but I couldn't help wondering if this generation had lost all sense of seriousness. Was this how the people of today acted?
"I think it was around the time I stopped aging—was it when I was 14? I can't remember now. That was a long time ago," I said, my voice trailing off.
The girl pulled her attention away from the bag and looked at me, her expression still unreadable.
"Well, from what I can tell, your life's been a little better these past years. That brothel you were stuck in, right? I'm sure your... 'winnie' had a lot of fun being ridden by—"
"Why are you so vulgar?" I cut her off, my face turning slightly red. "It's not like I wanted to be captured as a slave in the first place."
"Really? You didn't enjoy any of it?" She stared at me suspiciously, one eyebrow raised higher than the other.
"Well… it wasn't a totally bad experience… Wait, why do you even care? Who are you, anyway?" I squirmed slightly and freed one hand from its restraints.
Before she could react, I quickly freed my feet as well. But as I was about to make my move, she grabbed my hair with full force and yanked it back.
"Don't even think about it," she hissed. Without hesitation, she plunged a knife into my chest, right through my heart.
The pain was instant and overwhelming. I screamed, feeling the heat of my blood spilling out. The knife pulled back, and I could feel the coldness of death slowly crawling up my body.
I lay there, motionless, the world turning dark as my breath became shallow. It wasn't the first time I'd felt this sensation—slowly losing all feeling, the weight of life slipping away as my body grew colder. The beep in my ears grew fainter, and all I could hear was the sound of my own heartbeat slowing down.
I closed my eyes, ready to embrace the darkness.
But then, moments later, I woke up. My lungs filled with air, and I gasped, feeling the sharp sting of life returning.
"What were you even thinking?" I shouted, sitting up, only to realize the girl was still on top of me, looking entirely unamused.
"I knew it, you're Rein, aren't you?" she said, her voice colder than before.
How did she know my name? Was she sent by those people to drag me back to that hellhole? Would they strap me down again and tear me apart like before?
Suddenly, a gust of wind swirled around me. I didn't even think about it as I chanted, using the wind to push her off me.
"I don't know who you are," I said, my voice shaky, but growing more forceful. "Please, just leave me alone. I—I have to attend my class."
I stumbled to my feet, still not understanding what was happening. How was this woman so certain of who I was? What did she want with me? My heart pounded in my chest, but for once, it wasn't from fear of death. It was fear of what she might do next.