First month
She would not have much memories of her first month in this new life. She got tired easily, and her senses weren't developed enough. After nine months living in a womb, being in the outside world again was highly deranging. She slept through the days, merely waking up to eat or look a bit around. She had no muscles in her body. She felt like a heavy blob of butter.
Most of the time she would call for her mother when she wasn't there. She was so weak, and she was so frail. She needed someone she knew near her. Even though she didn't get when people were talking to her. Warmth and soft voices were enough for her.
Sleeping, eating and shitting. That was the only things she cared of, because she wasn't adapted to this world. And there was this itchy feeling that was fluctuating around her. There was always a ticklish feeling on her skin she had attributed to the air, but it wasn't that. The ticklish became an itch when her father came home, when it didn't change when it was mother. She couldn't help but cry when her father was holding her. It was unbearable.
She remembered people coming to see her. She couldn't see their faces, but she could feel the itch! Myriads of needs were tearing her body apart. Her cries weren't soft wails anymore, but howls of pain. Fate had a cruel sense of humour, sending her to another life to die. The worst part went when someone lit her world with this green light under which she squirmed in pain.
She remembered passing out several times during this incident. After that she was probably back at her home, though she was still unable to see further than twenty centimetres on average. Her father never came back after a while, and she was relieved. Though it made her sad somehow: did that mean she would spend her whole life around her mother, in this room, unable to meet with anyone else?
What did every of this meant? Why was she hurt by her father and not by her mother? What was the tickle she felt in the air? What did it mean? She couldn't understand what it meant.
At least there was her mother. She had finally understood her own name was Honoka. It was a strange name to her who had lived in an occidental world. It sounded Asiatic to her, but she doubted she could call it this way here. To her own knowledge she could be anywhere in space or time. Well some recent era given that she slept in cotton and woollen sheets and her toys were partially in plastic.
Honoka had difficulties to show her mother her different expressions She couldn't produce any other sounds than wails and cries with that throat of hers. The only other gurgles she had managed to produce were totally out of her control. The best she could do was pulling on the corners of her mouth in what she thought of what a smile should resemble. She wished she had a mirror to train her facial expressions.
She couldn't lift her arms to ask for a hug, and her fists remained balled. She couldn't seize objects, just brushing them with the back of her hands. It was like she had forgotten how to do such simple things. She couldn't train her muscles if she couldn't control them a bit! I could grip things by reflex like the finger of my mother or the handle of the wooden spoon. But nothing could be done voluntarily. It was unnerving.