When I first opened my eyes, I was met with a confusing monochromatic palette. It was like God slapped a paper on my face, where a kindergarten child previously spilled their Crafts paint on, and told me that was all I would be seeing for the duration of my life. Or, more appropriately, my second life.

Yes, you heard that right—I died.

And no, my death would not be recorded by the media, because it wasn't a glorious vehicle collision or a devastating plane crash. No, I had lost a battle. Against who? You may aptly ask. I'll tell you, friend.

Stroke.

Yes, a death that should be frowned upon. My family would've been mourning over my surrender to the illness, though as much as I wanted to rectify that I did fight, I couldn't. That wasn't my life anymore. And apparently, God decided to load my karma onto this one, as I couldn't experience my second life with a full view—I experienced it with no view at all. When I died, I saw black. And then I lived again, only seeing black. Was I damned to a full circle of reincarnation, but with a small fault: I was to be reborn with a disability? I was a mute in my last life, and then, my power of speech was bestowed upon me again, at the cost of my sight.

How lovely.

Yes, I was an eccentric mute in my previous life. I was born to a family with six children to begin with, and because of my disability, I warranted unnecessary over-protectiveness from my family. I grew up as the sixth child to then seven children, and apparently, infant reinforcements that kept my baby brother in place applied to me as well. While my siblings would leave for school, I received my education through countless private tutors. My mother or grandmother would be waiting by the door, watching intently as I collected more knowledge. Apparently, science proved that disabled people have more fragile tempers—I only ever went apeshit in my house once, and that was only because my parents decided to prohibit access to my room's balcony.

I would be imprisoned in my room, and at times, even my siblings forgot about my existence. My name was taboo out of the house, and if ever mentioned, the fact that I was a pureblood child of this family would be easily shrugged off. Again, how lovely.

I grew up a recluse, accompanied by an assortment of books and a treadmill I had lugged into my room when I was eight. When I wasn't studying, I would be indulging in fiction, running on the treadmill. When I was ten, I gathered the guts to sneak out of my family's gargantuan abode. I hadn't made it far past the massive gates because a security guard noticed me, so I kept the notion of exploring for another day.

I decided after that, that if I couldn't break outside the boundaries of home, I would search my siblings' rooms. My first sister was a snorefest if anything, but it was expected from the eldest child. As I browsed her room I only found crumpled paper behind her bed, desk, and chair, and only one so far had an inappropriate male no-no scribbled on it. I stuffed it in my pocket for safekeeping. My second sister was an emo, my third brother was a preppy asshole, my fourth brother was a resident douchebag jock, but I found rummaging through my fifth sister's bedroom most enlightening. Beneath a pile of untouched laundry, I found a stack of picture books, hidden quite nicely from the world. I snuck the stack into my room, and I examined the front cover of the first volume intently. The title was etched in a funny font and I found the skull detail quite amusing. One Piece. That was when my love for reading manga first bubbled inside. I got to experience an exciting adventure with the main character, beloved Monkey D. Luffy, and his crew, the Straw Hats. I remember being snuggled up in bed reading up on all the volumes I could before my sister realized my foul play. These 'picture books' were entrancing to me, as I could vividly see the sketched drawings on every page, feel like I was with them. And the sense of freedom that came with it was enlightening. I didn't get quite far, as my sister had berated me for theft and equipped security on her door. I didn't mind, because soon enough, I discovered anime.

Other than reading and watching anime, exercise became a channel where I burn my boredom. I snuck items from the gym in the residence, but I mostly utilized the jumping rope and treadmill. When I was twelve, I was permitted to leave the safety of my house, though the limit of this freedom reached to the walls that confined the property. I would regularly run and jog outside, it didn't take long for me to bring my everyday activities outside. I grew fast and agile. And then, I witnessed the Olympics on television. Though I admit the segments where they featured athletics like tennis and softball were interesting, it was the segments that featured gymnastics that truly enthralled me.

Now, I wouldn't say that I was a dumb kid. Every other day I'd be clocking in more private tutoring and reading. I got increasingly bored in fiction, though I found salvation in encyclopedia books. Despite that, traces of immaturity remained in me, albeit dormant. The day after the Olympics enlightenment, I locked myself in my room and attempted simple yoga positions. After acing the tree pose and somewhat completing a few minutes of a backbend, I determined myself flexible enough to attempt a split.

Yeah. It didn't work out very well.

My screams were muted out—pun intended—and I looked nothing short of demonic. Mouth wrangling around painfully but no sound emitting. I felt sincerely lucky that I attracted no one's attention, or they would've had the devilish apparition known as the 'Wendell Scream' befallen upon them. Which comes to mind, I've never really told you about my previous name, haven't I? Well, it was Wendell Kirkland. As British as my name sounded, trust me when I tell you this—I'm Australian.

Getting off-track here. I tried improving my gymnastics from there. I tuned into the television daily for any instructions. When that didn't work, I instructed a security guard to smuggle a book for me. I tried to keep up with my studies but I allotted more time to studying gymnastics rather than clocking extra studying hours. When I got the split down, I began thumbing through the pages for more positions and tricks—dear Lord, that sounded wrong. I remember vividly how my maid shrieked when I was performing back handsprings in the backyard—every time I saw her, I made sure to assume a yoga position. I didn't see her anymore after the first week of doing it.

As I grew up, I learnt more moves, though it was safe to say that I very much preferred performing korbut flips on the twin trees that grew in the backyard. When I turned seventeen, I celebrated by performing a sequence of flips and springs... to escape the walls that bound me inside the virtual prison. It was fading into the night, and the illumination that the crescent moon provided supported me as I sprinted down the road, beaming as the evening breeze whistled past me.

Uplifting, to say the least. Yet it didn't last very long. When I drifted into the city, I had purchased a can of alcohol and was chugging down the bitter liquid as I traversed down the dimly-lit streets, the way back home. What happened next set a definite limit to my life. I had walked upon a group of thugs jumping an innocent woman, and my stupid brain decided to play hero. Except, I never exactly understood the concept of rescuing someone. All I could do was dodge their blows, I couldn't deliver one myself because of my incompetence. After I lured a thug into a back alley, I went to usher the woman and child to safety. But apparently, I just tore myself an opening, as the next thing I knew, something hard swung against the side of my head.

When I woke up, I was bedridden in a medical hospital. An incessant buzz was tinging my auditory senses, but that wasn't what shocked me. My vision failed to gather itself, failed to focus. An abstract picture acted as my vision, and from the get-go, I knew something went terribly wrong. The blow surprised the blood vessels in my brain, I received enough hits to prompt a hemorrhage. My brain's vessels surrendered and ruptured. It was torture since then.

First, I never regained normal visual again.

Second, I lost the use of the right side of my person.

Third, I was deprived of use of my left side. Completely paralyzed.

Fourth, I could no longer see through my right eye.

Fifth, I never passed a day without a beating migraine that willed my demise.

Sixth? The will of the illness overpowered mine, and I got exactly what it was determined to deliver to me. My demise.

The migraine was overpowering. My sore joints suddenly feel like it rusted, and my paralyzed limbs jolted like I had just been electrocuted. My heart rushed against my ribcage, like it was trying to escape the grips of death, before the once great muscle succumbed to it. I remembered the steady buzz of the cardiac machine before I faded into death... which I embraced readily.

I died. And now, I was given a second chance. I knew that I couldn't waste it.


A/N: Dear Lord, my first fanfiction. I transferred it from my phone to my laptop so if I failed to apply stuff such as BOLD, ITALICS, or UNDERLINE onto appropriate words I sincerely apologize :,).

So hello! I never actually existed in before I wrote this fanfiction, so I'm obviously a fresh face around. I'm not the best writer, but I can't just ignore my exploding imagination. So I decided to pay homage to this amazing work by Eiichiro Oda-sama.

If you've noticed, I dedicated most of the chapter to explain her love of gymnastics rather than diving deep into the fact that she loves One Piece. It's a defining feature, yes, but it's not what defines her exactly, so I allotted more writing to explaining her favorited hobby and passion: gymnastics. I hope this clears up some confusion.

Well, I have nothing else to say. Thank you for reading!