Jump!

- two -

My body was being flung around by the ocean like a fucking ragdoll. Briny water rushed into my nostrils, burning the walls of my throat.

I'm dying.

I clawed fruitlessly at the water, as if attempting to pull myself up. The angry waves tugged at me aggressively. I was being lugged into the deep and dark abyss. My feet flailed desperately. Swim.

I'm dying.

Fear immobilized my limbs. I was choking. I was suffocating - I was drowning, and my body suddenly decided to succumb to the waters, and holyfuckingshit I'm actually dying.

(... was someone going to save me?)

The bright sun disappeared beneath my eyelids. I have given up. Fright lurked near me, coiling around my body; I wanted to scream. I was being asphyxiated by slinky, attractive waters and a thick surrounding of utter silence. Swim.

… (you didn't even save yourself…)

Swim.

I'm being wrenched away from a brief sensation of enveloping warmth. I'm being passed around like a hot potato. I'm being squished into a freckled breast and being forced to suck. I'm hungry, and something akin to shit is filling my pants. I'm a baby.

I was reincarnated, that's certain. My first few months are uneventful. My days are wasted crying, soiling my pants, sapping up milk from my mother's tit, (which, oddly enough, reinforces our bond) and sleeping. I'm unable to control my motor functions. My skin is heavy with fat and all I could do is splutter and spit. At least I have variety: sometimes I gag. My head is heavy and I haven't passed the crawling stage yet.

My mother speaks something akin to Japanese. I'm not too sure yet, but I know it isn't English. Where am I?

My name is Sorano Kotori. I'm not sure which is my first name, but I'd wager it's Kotori. It's a pretty name and it rolls off my family's tongue beautifully. Kotori. Amelia. Amelia, meet Kotori; Kotori, meet Amelia.

My mother's name is Sorano Hotaru. I hear my grandmother call her that. Sometimes my mother will passive aggressively call her Chōko.

My father is absent. I wonder if he's dead or simply was my mother's one-night-stand. I absentmindedly wonder where he is and what he's like. Is he a cold-hearted ginger with no soul? Is he a warm brunette with soft dark eyes? Is he a hard, but well-meaning old geezer?

He seldom appears on my mind. It's unimportant. We are poor. That's also - somewhat - unimportant. I have bigger things to worry about, like learning the language, finding out where exactly I am, and planning my next course of action. Besides, my family is plentiful with just my mom and grandma.

Often times, when alone, I fantasize about my phenomenal past life. I was a successful volleyball athlete on my way to the university of my dreams riding on a scholarship. I left an imprint of my legacy at my beloved high school.

My death was haunting. I was there again - in my dreams, obviously. I was in the clear and cerulean Mexican waters. The waters were enchanting and beckoning. They seduced me like deceiving sirens. I placed a sheepish toe in, and I was swiftly pried from the comforting shore and into their cold, callous grasp. The waves wrapped around me and pulled me down, down into their murky, mysterious chasms.

I woke up wailing. All my mother could do was shove her fucking tit in my mouth. I was traumatized and all she could do was feed me, burp me, and check to see if I had shat myself. Wonderful. Does this whole 'reincarnation' niche include a complimentary, free therapy session?

I'm able to master crawling at five months. I'm determined, and with nothing to do in my free time, I teach myself to crawl. My body is heavy and shaky; it's not accustomed to locomotion, but I slowly teach myself. I've done it before, I could do it again My grandma catches me one day as I move from her lap to the floor. She's ecstatic and clasps her hands together in delight. She sings me a hearty Japanese nursery rhyme and rocks me in her arms as she dances across the tiny room.

It's embarrassing to admit, but being flung in the air and being caught is pretty fun, and I giggle involuntarily.

She shares the news with my mother. I still can't understand them.

I see myself in front of a mirror one day. My body is surrounded by chub and pudge. My hair is messy and an odd color. I don't bother with it. It appears to be some type of purple, but I attribute the unconventional shade to my poor baby eyesight.

At six months, the pain begins. Discomfort that shoots through my gums makes me cry and moan in pain. My family coos in sympathy and rubs ice on them, which temporarily soothes the pain.

I am teething.

I knew it's what babies have to go through, but holy shit, it hurts like hell.

Being a baby sucks.

My first word was "Mama". Now, I had practiced talking when I was sure no one was around, which was rare. Logically, no decent parent or guardian would want to leave a baby by itself.

Most of my practices were incoherent blubbering and cooing as I tried to form the words. I wasn't well-versed in Japanese, although I was beginning to pick up bits and flecks of the East Asian language. My best bet for success would be the universal "Mama". It would satisfy my mother and it was simple to say. My lack of teeth and my loss of control over my tongue and lips made it difficult to speak, however.

I finally succeeded one morning. The aforementioned woman was in the kitchen while I was perched on a high chair. After taking a few quiet breaths, I sounded the word out. It felt odd on my tongue, and I stuttered. "M… Ma… Mama,"

My mother whirled around and stared at me wide-eyed. Tears welled in her eyes and she lunged at me, encompassing me in a tight bear-hug. She coughed into my neck, but I didn't cringe or anything. Most importantly, I wasn't satisfied. I wanted to practice more. I was tired of staying silent in conversations.

My determination to contribute to mundane, daily conversations proved to be resilient. I began trying to pronounce the words my family said; stuff like Baa-chan, ohayo, arigatō, Hi no Kuni, and akachan. I didn't know what "Hi no Kuni" or "Akachan" particularly meant, but I attempted. I practiced whenever I could, which again, was rare. I slept with my mother and grandma and I didn't want to risk them awakening to my spluttering.

I made a mental checklist of what I had to do in the meantime. I made it a goal to complete this before my birthday:

→ Learn the language

→ Learn how to talk

→ Learn where exactly I am / time period (future?)

→ WALK!

I thought that that was simple enough for an eighteen-year-old-girl-trapped-in-a-baby's-body.

I took my first steps at ten months old. I decided to test out how well I could walk; I've been crawling around for a while and frankly, I was tired of the hardwood hurting my knees. I wriggled out my grandmother's grasp and placed a foot down, then another. I don't mean to toot my own horn, but walking was surprisingly easy… for a minute. My legs decided to take a break from the strenuous exercise and I nearly tumbled to the floor. Chōko caught me just in time, beaming ecstatically. She began rambling in Japanese, and I barely caught what she said.

I'm pretty damn proud of myself.

Eleven months of being fully submerged in the language, with no other choice but to listen and understand, and I was able to comprehend somewhat.

I'm a fucking prodigy.

I was proud of myself. I was fat, I was weighed down by my monumental head, and I was able to walk.

So far, my checklist was semi-completed:

→ Learn the language

✓ Learn how to talk

→ Learn where exactly I am / time period (future?)

✓ WALK!

My dreams gradually became blithe a few months after my first birthday. Instead of dark, blood thirsty waves, I dreamt of my past life. I dreamt of a volleyball tournament. Clad in black spandex shorts and a maroon jersey, my teammates tracked a whizzing ball, positioning themselves in the appropriate stances. It soared through the air, the sound of an aggressive smack! echoing through the gymnasium; the opponents have struck the ball. My heartbeat was thunderous in my ears. Sweat glided off my brow. I got into position and jumped. I felt as if I were flying - was I flying? It's a dream, after all - like a bird. My hand connected with the ball. My body was in harmony with my environment; the panting of my teammates, the roaring of the crowd, the sounds of sneakers squeaking against the floor, the expectant looks of our opponents. It was all a picturesque illustration. I wanted to freeze in this picture forever. I craved to be there again.

I slammed the ball down, my palm prickling and fingers buzzing with excitement. The ball crashed into the floor. My teammates cheered my name.

Kotori, Kotori, Kotor-!

I stirred from my stupor abruptly. The gymnasium briskly faded away, and all I saw was the slight darkness of my mother's room. I grunted. Why were they cheering that name? I thought, perplexed. I brought my chubby hand to my forehead and clutched it. I was sweating. My pulse was pitter pattering. I was still excited from my daze.

I took a quick look around the room. It was eerily still and quiet. It was warm and airy with darkness, and the windows betrayed a glint of starlight. I attempted to control my breathing. The memory of my dream haunted me. The sound of my American teammates chanting a Japanese name made me shudder.

My mother's arm instinctively wrapped around me and pulled me closer. I closed my eyes, attempting to lull myself back to sleep. The utter silence frightened me.

A disgusting, bone-chilling aura and an abrupt blast of wind that shook the house woke all of us up.

Swim.

We were running. I was uncomfortably tucked in my mother's arm as she ran, sans her shoes. My grandmother wasn't young, but adrenaline seemingly oiled her old joints. She ran with fear apparent in her eyes.

The entire town was in mayhem. We were running.

The wind bit at my throat. It clearly irritated my mother's, and several times, she began a tiny coughing fit. I tried not to join the chorus of crying babies, but I was scared shitless.

This was the first, real time I was outside my house since being born. The town seemed eerily familiar, but I couldn't bother to recall; I was panicking.

My breathing was short. We were guided into a dimly lit underground shelter.

"Hayakusiro!" A duo of men - police officers? They didn't don the uniform - panickedly instructed. I understood that to mean "hurry up". We hurried into the shelter, made our way to an empty corner, and plopped ourselves down. My mother's pulse was racing with fear and exhaustion. I could hear my grandmother wheezing for breaths. Confusion invaded me; what was going on? Was it a tornado? Hurricane? Tsunami? Terrorist attack?

My grandmother began speaking to my mother in a low voice. She was catching her breaths. "Did… you see?" she murmured.

"What?" my mother said in a hushed voice.

Incomprehensible Japanese ensued. I caught only specks of the conversation. Familiar words such as "Kyuubi", "shinobi" stuck out like a sore thumb.

I frowned, my heart skipping a beat. Where did I hear 'kyuubi' from…? It was at the tip of my tongue.

As if to answer my question, a man with tanned skin walked in.

"Mina, ochitsuite!" he boomed, causing panicked conversations to die down.

I craned my neck as best as I could to take a good look at him. My heart stopped. He looked quite normal and plain looking; short brown hair and sun-kissed skin were flushed with sweat. The only thing that was remotely striking was the a forehead protector proudly tied around his, well, forehead.

The sandals. The language. The town. The 'blast of wind'. Kyuubi. The -

It all finally registered. My heart began beating erratically. I felt as if I were going to die.

I wasn't in Japan. I was in the world of Naruto.