Another chance is the last thing that comes to mind when you miserably failed your first one and resorted to the easiest way out. Atoning for your sins is one thing, but living another life that's possibly worse than your first one is incredibly taxing and sometimes you just start to wonder: what does it take for the gods to finally gift you eternal rest?
Staring on a plain painted ceiling is strangely rejuvenating when you try to dwell on your thoughts. More specifically, the memories of your past life that you should've forgotten during the process of reincarnation. The oblivion. The obliviousness of your past, your mistakes, and every decision that made you who you are back in your past life. Because who you are and who you end up being is up to whatever decisions you've made and every situation you've experienced and how you've handled them. Those decisions and experiences made you who you are and not whose child you are from or what your name was.
So it's obviously cheating when you have taken another form for another life but still have the awareness of your past life. It's obviously a fraud when the second chance you could've had to change who you are allowed you to keep your memories. Because these memories were what made you in the past and will continue to influence your behavior every step of the way until it's another end.
So I just lay here, with my body too heavy to move around and my muscles too tight for me to even open my palms. Every once in a while I would try to fall asleep, allowing the urgency of rest from being an infant to take over me. But every time I try to allow my mind a moment of rest, my past comes back to haunt me. All the memories of brokenness, pain, and every regret—it will come like an unrest ghost begging me to do something about it when I couldn't. So I would wake up with tears blurring my sight with a painful scream that carried a lifetime. Then I would curb against myself like I always did in my past, hoping and praying that my blanket is big enough to cover me from all the nightmares and memories that haunt me.
And I would try to stay like that, curling and gripping against my chest, trying to ease the ache in my chest as it builds up to something—warm..?
I painstakingly try to open my eyes and find two full moons in her eyes. And then she hushes me softly before her arms protectively cradle my body. From where my head lay, I can hear the beats of her heart, and every calming thump sets me in unexplainable tranquility I've never had in a while.
Her arms curls around me in a firm and gentle hug, and all I can hear was the sound of her hum and feel the warmth of her body heat and the vibration of her voice as it travels out from her lungs and out. Suddenly, miraculously, the voices in my head had quiet and the memories of the past had subsided and onto the back of my head. In her arms, all I could feel was the warmth and tranquility that only her essence can offer. For the first time in a while, I slept in peace for as far as I can remember.
It wasn't easy to accept that the simpleness of a baby's life that I've always wanted was boring as hell.
It's that thought growing up that becoming a baby again is so ideal. The life of just lying around to sleep and only waking up to eat and poop sounds too much of a dream when you are older, dealing with paperwork and life drama. At least as a baby, most of your worries were telling others you need to pee and your diaper is full and uncomfortably dirty. Back then it was such a dream to be had; now experiencing all this whole baby ordeal with a mind of a grown-up makes it so much harder and sometimes, a bit alarming.
Nonetheless, you get used to it and hope for the best.
But still, there were times when looking up at your ceiling or playing a staring contest with a seal plushie gets so boring (and it's definitely not because I was missing my mother—nope!), and I wished I can just get out of the damn bed without the fear of leaving my head behind, because—dear gods, why is it so heavy?!
And so, after a lot of thinking, I've concluded that some moving exercise shouldn't be so bad, and hopefully enough to quell my boredom. Said exercises are just a series of me, trying to move my head around with the fear of having a stiff neck looming at the back of my mind, and lifting my arms and legs while curling my fingers and toes close and open.
A week had been spent just trying to get used to my new body. My head doesn't feel as heavy, and my muscles don't hurt as much when I open my palm or stretch my arms and legs. But trying to roll over proved to be the hardest, not just because my body felt like a heavy sack of rice I couldn't carry, but also because of paranoia that something might happen to me whilst I'm on my stomach. In fact, when I braced myself to do just that, I almost had a panic attack when I wasn't able to lift my body to roll back. I was just about to whimper a cry when the shoji opened to reveal my mother.
She cooed at me like always, and I felt the same calm as when she first held me that night I almost succumbed to my inner demons. She brought me in her arms and started humming, it was only a matter of time before sleep takes over—WAIT! NO!
I can't sleep yet!
And so, I struggled in her arms, whining and trying to make her put me down. My mother frowned in confusion and I had to point at the floor before she nods, slowly easing me down onto the tatami mats. And for the first time, I crawled—or at least, what it seems like a poor attempt to crawl. But still, it was a first and my mother was more than willing to assist me in my endeavors, but not before putting my pants on. I guess she's afraid I'd scraped my knees.
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My moving exercises proved to be harder for my underdeveloped body, I supposed that wriggling around at this age isn't really how it's supposed to be, but my boredom is killing me and besides, I was finally able to get out once in a while and take a sift of fresh air, although I would always fall asleep shortly.
My mother was incredibly supportive, holding me and guiding me every step of the way. She would always wear a kind smile and look at me with overwhelming fondness and love. At first, it had been overwhelming, and I considered distancing myself. I wasn't used to such gesture, to that feeling of getting taken care of, but with her, it's also so easy to feel greedy and break down my walls to let her in, to let me soak in such maternal love I've never had the luxury to have. Besides, how can I avoid her when I'm stuck in my crib and I can't even get out of it?
Every morning she would come to my room to find me awake; most of the time I was asleep and she would wait for me while reading some scroll on the chair next to my cradle. Every time, she would greet me with a lovely smile while taking care of my needs. Then she would let me crawl around on the tatami, encouraging me with foreign words and calling me with—what I assume was—my name: "Hinata," she would call me. Her voice was warm and gentle, almost like the wind, caressing but not hurting. Then she would carry me and head out to the gardens where assortments of flowers, greens, and trees make a perfect view.
We would sit on the porch and mom would drink tea, just relishing in the morning sun and cool breeze. Every time she would tell me things in a language so familiar but unknown to me, then I would look at her with wide eyes and fascination. Her eyes were like the moon, white and pupilless with a tint of lavender if you look closely. At first, I thought that her eyes were scary, after all, I've never seen such eyes before even in my past life, but they held so much warmth and gentleness that I soon related them as the most beautiful eyes that I've ever seen. Her hair, I mused, was more like the color of the night sky, giving an impression like she's a goddess of the moon and the night sky.
I would admire her while she drinks her tea or attends to her plants, and every single time I would fall asleep on her chest, her arms securely tucked around me.
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It wasn't until a week before I met—who I was supposed to be—my father.
He was a tall, well-built man with long brown hair, and pale eyes, the same as my mother. I blinked at his sudden appearance, while Chiyo—who I supposed to be my nanny of some sorts—stood to bow at his presence, greeting him before she left the room. I was at my crib when he looked over at me. He stood with his spine straight, with a look of intimidation in his eyes, and I couldn't help but shudder at his aura.
"Hinata…" he calls me, his voice low and grave and… awkward?
I inspect him quietly as he leans down to my crib, his long hair cascading down his back till they tickle my nose. Subconsciously, my fingers reached up towards his hair, gripping its ends and—dear Kami!—why is it so soft?
I tugged his hair gently and chance a glance at his expression. A tiny part of me was scared that I had offended him. Instead, I find pale moon eyes looking at me with softness and pride. The thin line of his lips quirked to a small smile, and he was saying something, his calloused fingers gently tracing my cheeks and stopping at the spot on my forehead where my mother would always kiss me. I look at him with curious wonder, holding his finger and keeping it there.
Then he continued to speak before he leaned down to place a quick kiss on my forehead. He didn't carry me, but he let me hold his hand till I fell asleep. He's a strange, intimidating man, but I felt the same sense of safety on him as I did with my mother.
He's my father.
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It took me at least six months to walk, and another 3 months for me to understand and talk at least a little appropriately. In my defense, Japanese was not a language I was particularly interested in learning back in my first life (that, and I'm an extreme introvert who finds talking too troublesome without blabbering nonsense or stuttering like a damn fool).
Overall, I was pretty proud of my progress and found myself giddy whenever they react when I call them "-kaasan" and "-tousan", respectively. Understanding them was easy enough, and I could formulate enough words to talk (babble) back. This means I can properly tell my kaasan whatever I want including cinnamon rolls that my mother often has as a snack and to read me a book before I go to bed (and that's like, three times a day) considering that I have yet to learn to read and write, but that can come later on I suppose, maybe after I improved on my stamina and my endurance against sleepiness because I swear to Kami I have yet had a day when I can fight sleep.
After my whole fiasco on calling my parents as a show of my growth, Otousan had been frequenting his visits to my quarters and would often join me and kaasan on our tea time in the garden. This means I can frequently indulge my hopeless romantic self with the way Otousan looks at Kaa-san like she hung the moon and the stars, it also helps that our garden is the perfect setting for any romantic scenes, filled with a variety of flowers, greens, and bugs (mostly butterflies). That and my father is a master in subtlety and my mother always ends up beet red at the end.
I suppose my only problem was the fact that I still have no idea if this world works like my old one. Everyone that I have met so far—kaa-san, tou-san, Chiyo-obasan, and Kō-san—were all white-eyed individuals wearing traditional kimonos and haori from Japan; but as far as I'm concerned, Japanese people frequently have brown eyes in various shades, never grey or white. It's also safe to assume that our house is much bigger than what I've seen so far with how far the walls have stretched. I also frequently see more people with the same opal eyes in the passing, but never quite interacting with them. In fact, my kaa-san was the only one with the original hair color that I've met so far.
By the time of winter, my father came to me while I was basking in the warmth of my mother near the fireplace, asking me for whatever present I would want for my upcoming birthday. Kaa-san had looked at him incredulously like he had just ruined the surprise and Father's eyes shook like he was about to take back his words before he shook his head to maintain his calm to look at me expectantly.
I look back and forth between the two of them before I whisper my wish, "Hina wants a friend." I told them, missing a few syllables and babbling by the end, but Father only nodded as if deciding before he pressed a kiss on my forehead. "Alright," he says, standing up, "I think I know someone you might like."
It wasn't until a week later when I met the boy that would obliviously shatter my remaining obliviousness about this world.
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"Good mornin', Lady Hinata. My name ish Neji!"