Chapter Two: The new world and treatment.

This world is not that different than any of the ones I’ve live…

Bottom line was I didn’t choke when I came out. But it was still in the dark age. Rundown houses of wood, bricks and mud with roofs of either straw, sticks or planks. There was nothing of technological advancement—though I have long learned never to get attached.

Countless places and worlds brought with different setups.

The greenish skies and the twin suns hanging above. One giving of blue-white glare and the other a bright reddish-orange.

The night was just like in any other world, stars of different colours dotting the darkness, twinkling. The five bright moons that floated above, and the constellations which are only ever so similar rarely. Two out of the three are irregularly shaped, meteors that had been caught in the planet’s orbit, one glowing a a pale dirt and the other red. The other three perfect, giving off blue, another gray and the other yellowish. With the glow of the moons the night sky took on a Charleston green, a tad brighter, and without looked no different from any other night sky.

As there wasn’t artificial lights polluting the atmosphere the nightscape was a light show of stars.

Year One to three:

As a child I know absolutely nothing about this world since I haven’t made it into the reaches of the outside wide world, not to mention three houses away from home. Not without facing the scorn of the people and them throwing trash my way any chance they get.

Scorned by the ones I called parents and branded a devil by those that lay eyes upon me.

The reason, simple: for my bright red eyes.

I guess what applied in the some of other worlds of my other lives doesn’t go too well here.

It’s a little shocking that my parents haven’t tossed me out right after birth and even now—it’s might a matter of time, though.

I don’t get why my eyes branded me a demon whiles those around me are of different colors anyway. Not that it matters.

From what I gathered, listening in (a couple of days into my birth) my parents had said I had they eyes of one that has seen death, been through pain, the colour of blood, eyes that don’t belong to a child, the eyes of a demon.

Not wrong about that.

And as I grew it was added, from listening to those around me, that I felt nothing, remorse or emotion.

My answer: what was there to feel when already living through an endless cycle, a curse.

If it were up to me, I’d rather they leave me alone.

Life in this world hasn’t been easy—it hasn’t been in any.

For reasons already stated I was treated like a curse by me own parents.

For so much as glancing their way I was given the rod under the pretext of banishing the devil within. I’ve lost count of the bruises and scars I’ve had. It amazing that they haven’t tried finding a priest or something in the likes to exorcise me. Or even lynch me in fears of future woes.

Pain? All that I’ve been through makes this feel like nothing.

Days I was left starved, chained away from the light of day in a humid basement. If I was indeed given any morsel either soup of water with salt or something that looked like leftovers mixed together or something that looked like barf or worse.

Currently down in this humid place is were I find myself, cuffed in chains, sitting on the dirt floor with the outgrown rags I call cloths I’ve had on for years, leaning on the wall.

If this state is the state I mostly, throughout this life, find myself, how was I to know the world and it’s happenings.

That knowledge was of no concern to a child, but it was still relevant to me. What importance is that information? Nothing. Just knowing is enough for me—not that there is a problem whether or not I learn of it. Talking is rather a pain anyway, and it’s not like anyone would listen to me anyway.

Creeeaak

I hear the door creak open and footsteps coming closer.

“Still awake up, devil… better yet, you dead yet?”

The voice is of the one who sired me into this world, father. Not like he’s ever been one.

In his hand what I think is a meal in a wooden bowl. The scent that wafted into my nose smelled rotten. And his other hand covering the lower half of his face.

How did I end here this time?

Nothing really. For not talking. Should I decide to speak but a single word—not that I did anyway, this is where I end.

I stood there in my outgrown rag just observing nothing in particular out in the back.

“The hell you doing out there, devil child…” It was the same man before me now. I looked over to him then back to watching nothing. There was absolutely nothing in my mind, just a blank state trying to ignore everything. That was when I heard a pair of heavy steps heading towards me. I could tell who it was. Not that I bothered to be certain.

Close by…

“Hey”

I turn only to meet his fist thrown into my face. I fell to my side, still conscious. He pull back on his punch.

“Cry, shout, talk, curse, beg. Do something. Squeal freak, devil’s spawn…” With every word/phrase came a kick.

While he’s at it let me, let me put out the observation I’ve had on my family.

The man beating on me is Varden, age, not that I cared to know. Probably late 20’s or within 30. So goes for my mother, her name, Caela.

If my assumptions of this world has is even a smidgen accurate, with the nobility and what-not my family should be of common class, but maybe with a little to spare after accounting for the day to day and so on.

I guess he’s about done.

“Your very existence is nothing but a curse, a blight to us. Just die.”

My eyes has been on him about a quarter through his venting. On the side I felt another gaze coming from the house, my mother.

I can’t help but think. If I wasn’t one with many experiences, many lifetimes, they would have beaten on an innocent kid, and being one who endures, barely registering the pain, he’d be starve, maltreated, emotionally damaged, beaten to death. Just imagine a helpless kid placed in a situation he knows nothing about only going through pain, how would he survive in the same situations I go through without my tolerance and experiences? Such a dreadful story it would make…

“… Quit looking at me.”

He lifted his leg and brought I down to my fac—

When I woke up I found myself here, again. It’s been four days or so since I was locked up in here, hardly anything to eat.

This wasn’t hard as the time I was starved for a nearly a month and I had to leave on nothing but my own excrements and weeds. Well it wasn’t this lifetime.

Speaking of shit, I forgot to mention that this room is the very room I sleep. I mean my room, just for me. Yeah.

You may be wondering how I relieve myself when I am bound. Sometimes, without the potty, I had to just go on myself, left in there for a couple of days, apparently forgotten by my parents, with the stench then forced to scrub it all when they found out.

And when the potty is nearby, when done I sit without cleaning myself and let the stench of my excrement in the pot bath me. I was basically leaving in my own filth day after day, hardly any chance to bathe.

All that and I still get beaten for not keeping myself.

Why haven’t I fallen sick and died?

I’m not sure why though. I wish it would happen but I’ve survived. Luckily I know how to keep myself so I do well tidy up when I’m not bound.

Why don’t I just give up and end it all? It is pointless in the long run as it will only lead to another life.

All these may seen subtle from the way I say it, skimping on the fine details but it is true torture, a brutality that not even the harden war veteran would wish to face.

“… Here.”

A distance away from me he places the bowl on the floor and kicks it over to me.

Whatever it was slid over spilling over a lot leaving just a little stopping a couple of steps away from me.

“Even bad three day old soup is wasted on you.” He said turning away.

There you have it. That’s what I have every time, nothing fresh.

“I’ll be back, so clean that mess! Better yet just keel over.” Hand on the door, which by the way only opened from the outside, he added and creaked the door shut.

… Gently, I crawled over and grab the bowl lifting it up to my mouth. I’d like to say I was holding back my vomit—but even vomit has nutrient to survive on—but nothing came out. I’ve eaten far worse now and in my previous lives.

I’ve wondered why they still haven’t just killed me. And the only answer I could come up with is some law prohibiting that, with the manner of treatment sure isn’t going to be some moral reasons… Could be, probably don’t want blood on their hands and the stigma of having killed their own son

If I may add, something about my childhood—I’m still a child though—when I was a baby, I hadn’t once had the milk directly from my mother’s bosom. Nor that of a wet nurse, I was shone by anyone as the rumor had spread from the mid-wife and her apprentices. I was feed directly from a wooden cup with a small mouth, a variation of milk from the livestock that were bought in town and an extremely rare squeeze from mother’s breasts.

Hate? No, pity. Yes. Pity. I wonder what she must have gone through for this remnant behaviour etched into her. Or is this rather her ‘new self’?

I downed the three day soup that had gone bad. Its acidic, yucky and bitter taste made it down my gullet. If not for the rotten stench and yucky taste it could have passed for cheep almost ruined booze from one of my lifetimes.

All I can do is go with it. I crawl back to the wall and leaned my back to it.

My name, you ask.

The one I’m call in this lifetime: Teufelfilho. Teufel for short. Meaning devil’s spawn. As much as it was not one desirable I’ve had worse. Besides it’s better than being nameless. Well, truth be told they didn’t plan on naming me in the first place. But they concluded on that.

Hatred? My parents don’t deserve my hate. Their cruelty doesn’t deserve my hate… Only the one who made all this happen.

But I can’t help but question I was born from the two of them and they call me devil. Then what does that make them? How Ironic.