And they were roommates...
As soon as my second childhood began, I was faced with an odd phenomenon. My adult consciousness seemed to rarely awaken for more than a few days at a time. It was like someone put my newborn body on autopilot, only allowing me to take control on rare occasions.
At first, I would only be conscious for a few minutes each day. The strange blackouts and ever-changing times of day made it clear that something was off; one moment I would wake up at noon, and then suddenly it would be dawn again after fading out.
Whole days, and perhaps even several, appeared to pass between each awakening, making it impossible for me to fully understand my new surroundings in detail. But as the intervals between awakenings gradually decreased, I found solace in the fact that I was slowly adapting to my new body as it aged.
I concluded that the key to mastering this "awakening thing" lay in time, and that the aging process would eventually grant me full control over my cognitive and motor functions. But maintaining consciousness was incredibly taxing, especially when I tried to focus on things with my blurry vision.
On a side note, I felt grateful for frequently spacing out in my early days. As an adult trapped in a newborn's body, I could barely stand the idea of others taking care of my basic daily needs, let alone being awake for it all!
Deep, burning humiliation tormented me, and I wanted to bury it forever in the recesses of my mind, never to be willingly recalled. From the outside, my caretakers must have been puzzled over why this peculiar baby seemed embarrassed and persistently covered her eyes during diaper changes.
By the time I felt I had full control of my body, I was already one year old, judging by the mention of a birthday from one of my caretakers. Another adjustment I had to make was understanding the familiar language spoken by the adults around me. It was English, not my native language from my previous life, but one I had mastered as a teenager.
What intrigued me, however, was the strong accent that laced their conversations. I identified it as a native British accent, leading me to wonder if I had been reborn in England. The thought surprised me, as England was nearly on the opposite side of the globe from my first homeland. I supposed that the dynamics of rebirth knew no geographical boundaries.
What truly disconcerted me was the absence of tenderness from those caring for me. They couldn't be related to me, as they lacked the "family feeling" and treated me more like a chore than anything else. No tender words, cooing, or playtime.
Combined with the fact that I was currently in a nursery with about eight other babies, I concluded that I was living in an orphanage. This realization brought with it heavy emotions. No loving family to raise me in a warm home, I thought bitterly and somewhat disappointed. I had experienced this before, as an orphaned girl trapped in the cycle of foster care and adoption. I had naively hoped for an easier time this go-around, forgetting the world's inherent unfairness.
Almost immediately, shame filled me for having such thoughts. After all, I had a roof over my head and people taking care of me. Not every orphan in the world could say the same. I should be grateful for what I had.
My infant life took a turn when the matron (she certainly looked the part) of the establishment came to check on us one day. The old woman rarely visited the nursery, likely preoccupied with the other children living on the upper floors (I could occasionally hear laughter and small feet running up and down the stairs above).
The main issue that day was room capacity. The nursery had only five medium-sized cribs, each accommodating a maximum of two babies side by side. At the moment, there were nine babies in the room, including me. Only my crib remained roommate-free.
From my crib, I could hear the two caretakers, both women in their thirties, complaining about a baby's nasty behavior. The boy in question was prone to throwing tantrums daily. According to them, he was unruly and prone to hissy fits, deliberately hitting the other child sharing his crib.
I could indeed remember hearing the "little demon," as they called him, growling and wailing from the other side of the room from time to time. He had apparently gone too far the previous day by scratching the other child with his untrimmed nails, causing the poor kid to cry for hours on end.
The "little demon" sat through it all, looking smug and satisfied with his "evil deeds." What a troublemaker!
The logical solution would have been to isolate the baby in one of the cribs and let him assert dominance or whatever his plan was, but the matron thought differently. She believed that letting children, no matter how small, get their way would only lead to them becoming spoiled and ungrateful.
Furthermore, she thought that placing him with one of the calmer kids might be able to suppress his "evil tendencies," whatever that meant. The matron decided to move the unruly child into another crib - my very own crib.
This surprised me, as I had only ever lived (in my second life) in my crib all by myself. I didn't know how I would cope with another tiny being so close to me, let alone one as unwilling to share as this one.
I sighed. My peace and quiet had just been thrown out the window. As two old, wrinkly hands placed the child next to me, I turned my head to study his features and gauge his evilness directly.
To my surprise, I saw two very large baby blue eyes staring right back at me. Now that I saw him up close, and not from across the room, the kid actually looked kind of cute… for a troublemaker, that is.
As soon as I met my new roommate, I knew there would be trouble.
He had straight brown hair, full rosy cheeks, and... a piercing stare.
I mean, how could a baby look so intimidating? And was he actually glaring at me right now?
I could tell we weren't going to get along from the get-go. He looked disgusted by me, and I couldn't help but glare right back. The nerve of this guy! But he quickly lost interest and turned away, leaving me feeling stunned and somewhat offended.
What followed were months of tug-of-war with this nasty and unwanted roommate. He pulled the covers to his side, pushed me away with his feet, and even grabbed my hair. It was like living with a miniature monster!
But I refused to be bullied by a one-year-old. I had my pride as a grown-up, after all. Everything he did to me, I tried to do back to him, but I still felt uncomfortable about intentionally hurting an infant.
It seemed like we reached an unspoken agreement after some time living together: "Stay on your side of the crib or suffer the consequences!"
It was childish and petty, but it worked for a while.
The peace treaty held as long as we kept a pillow between us, until that fateful night when everything changed.