Birth
To be made by someone else's hands, Grimmjow knew what that felt like. He also knew what it felt like, when the mold didn't fit, when the person he was supposed to be wasn't the person he was. When his hands were red, except they were supposed to be white, spotless.
He may not know where he was going, but he knew where he came from.
He remembered his birth, feeling new, and young and smooth, like hot glass, still hardening. Like a baby, innocent. Which was honestly not the most fitting word to describe himself of all people, but he had nothing else to compare it to.
He remembered the first thing his eyes fixed on, were drawn to. A gently smiling face, arms stretched open as though to accommodate him in a warm hug. He knew this feeling. He'd felt it before.
Just as his hands were still red. (And they always would be.) He was no one different. He hadn't changed. Except that his powerful paws were hands and his swishing tail that always conveyed his mood was no longer existent. He was still that same person.
So he knew he's felt this before.
Staring from his hands to that face, only one word seemed to make sense at the time. Because he's not created himself, like before. This time, his body had been crafted by someone else's hand. By those hands, that were still held toward him, waiting for him to accept.
Grimmjow only managed to mutter that one word as he was pulled up by those firm hands. "Mother..." so quietly. Because it wouldn't do to let the others in the room hear him.