Call it Story from the Past

Looking back, my childhood felt entirely... separate... from the human world around me. It wasn't something I grasped when I was very young; for the longest time, I didn't feel unusual. To anyone watching, I was just another kid. My body looked the same, I ate the same food, spoke the same language, and laughed at the same jokes. I felt like any human, and I thought like one too.

The difference? Well, the difference is that I'm a mythical fox.

Or, at least, that's what the old stories claim. Chinese mythology paints the nine-tailed fox as a magnificent, benevolent creature, a symbol of good fortune. Our presence was once celebrated, seen as a sign of prosperity and peace. But history twisted that image. During the Tang Dynasty, we were blamed for the empire's collapse—a reputation forever tarnished thanks to a woman named Daji, whispered to be one of us, who supposedly manipulated an emperor through dark charm and malicious beauty.

My own lineage traces back to a secretive clan, the Wong family. For generations, we've carried this duality—both human and fox. My father was Chinese, my mother Filipino, and our deepest truth was guarded fiercely, known only to the closest members of our family. Our fox forms differed; they weren't all the same. My father manifested as a striking black fox, my mother a pure white one. My sister, softer shades, appeared as a lovely grey fox. But unlike them, who manifested just a single, magnificent tail when in fox form, or subtly influenced their human guise... I arrived with nine.

Born with all nine tails intact, my arrival was met with a complex mixture of awe and deep-seated concern. My parents and grandparents exchanged nervous glances. My grandparents, steeped in the old lore, saw in me the spitting image of the ancient, malevolent fox that had terrorized China and Japan centuries ago. Their suspicions cast a long shadow over my birth, a pall of uncertainty. My parents were anxious, yes, but they chose a different path. Instead of immediate judgment, they decided to simply...watch. To see who I would become before letting ancient fears define me.

My world began in Manila, Philippines, a city of vibrant noise and unpredictable downpours, where the air hung heavy and the heat was a constant companion. Even as a child, a whisper of that difference was always there, subtle but persistent. I tried to ignore it, desperate to simply fit in. I mimicked the kids who seemed effortlessly popular, thinking it the quickest, most necessary route to acceptance.

It worked, in a way. I made friends, cultivating a social circle, including my ride-or-die confidante, Mirabel. But fitting in also meant navigating the cruelties—the bullies who seemed to delight in making others miserable. The whole experience was rough, and eventually, I withdrew, cutting ties with my old friends for a few years.

Puberty arrived, bringing with it the usual awkward physical changes, but also a shift in how I related to others. I became more selective about who I let close, though that old impulse to please, that fuzzy boundary between myself and others, never quite faded. High school itself was a blur of the best and the worst—confusing, exhilarating, and deeply challenging. I wrestled constantly with who I was, a struggle amplified by the quiet anxieties simmering at home.

My parents, bless them, were often lost in their own world, emotionally unavailable when I needed them most. Sharing my teenage troubles felt impossible; they were too consumed by their own. Despite our shared Fox blood, my father was burdened by a constant, low-level paranoia about my sister's and my safety. His fear manifested as smothering overprotectiveness, a cautious nature that I, longing for simple freedom, found incredibly frustrating. My mother's anxieties ran differently; she fixated on appearances, constantly nudging me about how I dressed and how I acted. My complete lack of interest in presenting myself 'properly' seemed to genuinely frustrate her.

Even though they never explicitly voiced regret about my nine tails, a silent judgment, perhaps pity tinged with shame, often felt present in their glances. The sharpest sting came one night when I was nine. I overheard them, their voices hushed, speculating... that I might be the child of a demon, born from a curse on my mother's womb. A child shouldn't have to carry words like that, and they lodged themselves deep, stubborn, and unforgettable.

Through it all, my sister was my anchor. We grew fiercely close, sharing every trouble, every secret. In a home where we often felt misunderstood, we became each other's confidantes, forging a bond stronger than just sisterhood—a true best friendship.

Academically, I admit, I was a disaster. My grades reflected my lack of focus, a quiet source of shame, though I hid it behind a carefully cultivated air of cool indifference, pretending not to care about school or how I presented myself. As for romance? An absolute enigma. I was spectacularly clueless about navigating the confusing world of crushes and dates.

Then, just as I turned fifteen, our world fractured. Pneumonia swept through our home, taking both my parents with terrifying speed. That sudden, profound loss changed everything. It stripped away the distractions and the indifference, forcing me to find a strength I didn't know I had. It also burdened me with a responsibility that felt immense. Fortunately, we weren't left adrift. My mother's sister, my Aunt Cassie—wholly, wonderfully human—opened her home and her heart to us, becoming the anchor we desperately needed, a different kind of family.