Life and All Its Beginnings

The infant opened his eyes once more, but he wasn’t an infant anymore. He was growing. Every day was like a year of his life, and in a few days, he was able to wipe away the hardened snow with his own stubby, little arms.

He stood up. Nearly three feet above the ground. He was shivering, but he still wasn’t any closer to death than he was before. He wiggled his fingers in curiosity. Common sense hadn’t taught him what it really felt like to move. Around him, the ice had started to melt.

Seasons, he thought. He knew those things existed. The seasons seemed to have been changing. Was he at the cusp of spring when he was born? He didn’t know, but it seemed like it was so.

The place around him looked rural—a small corner at the side of an old, drive-in motel. It was like the ones from the 20th century. According to his inner records, that was nearly two centuries ago.

Oddly, the sight of the motel was actually somewhat relieving to him. It confirmed to him that he wasn’t dreaming. The knowledge was accurate. At the very least, it was accurate enough. He didn’t notice anything that would denote that this was the 22nd century, but it didn’t matter. At least he was real, right? But then his mind wandered to an outlandish possibility—

Am I a time traveler?

He quickly concluded the possibility was unlikely even for this century. That was drifting much too far into fictitious conclusions. There was a pile of knowledge already bestowed to him, and deviating too far would be uncommon sense. But then, a sudden noise startled him from his thoughts.

People. Just around the corner. They weren’t just images from his head.

He was about to feel joy for the first time in his life, when the group of rugged strangers abruptly stopped and stared at the infantile boy.

As obvious as the appearance of thugs were, the boy didn’t know. It wasn’t in his records. And all he did was blankly watch as the group walked up to the young boy with smirks on their faces. Because to them, he was just another source of stress relief.

After all, there were no consequences here…

Pain was the first thing his small body registered. It was unlike any other feeling he had felt before. It wasn’t like the numbing sensation of snow. The cold wasn’t even a bother. But what hit him now was much worse. He knew that without having to recall from his records.

They continued to kick and prod, jabbing at his skinny ribs with their stiff, pointed boots. None were willing to stop their blows.

It was excruciating. And the boy didn’t know if this was supposed to be better than if he had already died.

And after a few more minutes, they finally left behind a collapsed heap of bruises and blood. He was breathing more heavily, clenching at his chest as if his lungs weren’t already on fire from the frigid air. And instead of joy, he felt an intense anguish. It wasn’t even directed at the group of thugs. It was more so directed at himself—his birth.

He didn’t understand why he was born. He didn’t get why he was even self-conscious to begin with. Were infants all born like this? Were they all supposed to grow through this? There were hints of knowledge on familial relationships, but none of what he knew told him what the necessity of parents were nor what the needs of a child were.

He simply buried his head deep into the melting snow and quietly whimpered. There wasn’t even enough strength left for him to weep.