I.

There's something ironic about sleeping. It's like going into a practiced death, only to wake up and continue. But death doesn't continue. That's the irony.

You can argue that death does continue, that many people die everyday. But that's the cycle, not death itself. When by itself it was an end.

I died.

—whirling flashes, loud footsteps on concrete—

I died and it ended for me.

—shattering glass, the smell of burnt rubber, blue and red lights dancing along the street—

But, I continued. My little belief about ends (even if they were loose) that came together to form an actual end, was shattered. I suppose my beliefs didn't matter to whatever handled souls. My mind must've not been the first or the last in the hands of what probably was some cosmic being.

It wasn't bright, per se, but there was the flickering of a candle somewhere. I could barely see the shadows dancing over the walls and the cluster of blobs around me. They loomed with the candle's dance of shadows, and I was overcome with a sudden urge to wail.

Something cold touched me, a slap against my overwhelmed senses, and I flinched back, a whimper digging up to pass my lips. Everything felt simple now.

Not in a way where things are easy, but in a way that I didn't have as many emotions or thoughts running through me anymore.

Hunger.

Warmth.

Sleep.

It was so basic that I felt the urge to cry. My emotions, feelings, and thoughts felt stripped away from me, they were numb.

I was alive.

—a distressed cry, labored breathing, a woman's weak voice pleading for something—

I didn't make a sound as I was placed with who I assumed was my mother. I was too much in my own world to think about how warm she was, or how her arms trembled holding me.

I was alive. Again.

The first months of my life were a blur. I didn't remember much, and what I could remember was limited to colors and maybe the scent of something. It was hard being a baby, but not in a way that I ever thought it would be. My consciousness easily faded in and out of my grasp, not quite there yet there.

I was one now. A year had passed since I was born into a world that was not my own at the same time. Things were different in a way that I could not place a finger on why or how. It just was.

It was my first birthday, and while I knew my family was different this time around, I loved them.

—cold eyes, expected obedience, there's a hidden stash of glinting knives somewhere—

I was born into a big family, with an even larger extended family. The amount of people I had just seen in passing numbered well over fifty, maybe even more.

Hair and eye color ran from shades of brown to the primarily dominant black, and everyone wore dark colors. Builds were similar, never too muscular but always lean. There were common features shared of course, with shared ancestors it would be impossible to not see my own babyish features echoed somehow in a passing family member's ones.

I had five brothers and a father. I later learned that my mother passed a few months after my birth, her body too weak after giving a sixth life into the world. There was no guilt with this though. My birth was not my choice, my rebirth was not my choice.

Father was a calm and distant man, his hair falling into the darker shades that were more common in our large family. I never saw much emotion on his face, other than the cold authority that reflected in his eyes, but I swore there were times his gaze would soften when they fell upon his children. Perhaps my mother's death in this world had hardened him.

Masajirō was the eldest, as well as the tallest of all my brothers. A scar ran from his upper lip down to his collarbone, fresh and puckered pink. He had a voice that reflected his stern demeanor and guarded eyes. He was to be a man next summer.

Yoshihara and Yoshihisa were twins in their early teenage years. They shared the same curly hair that was very rarely seen in our large family. One and was never seen without the other, they were always together, always mirroring each other in some way or another. Despite their identical faces, it was easy to tell them apart. Yoshihara smiled more.

Madara is the most precocious out of them all, not afraid to say what he thinks and quick as a whip when it comes to his own wit. He tried to keep up with our older brothers but never seemed to make it. He had a short temper, quick to snap but always the first to apologize in his own way.

Izuna was the closest in age with me. He was a very cute toddler, much too interested in the youngest addition to the family other than anything else. Many times I had woken up in my own crib to see dark eyes peering curiously at me between wooden bars.

I was the youngest. I was the only girl.

Yoshihara placed me in the middle of our large family gathering, tatami mats crunching with the shuffle of so many people around the spot he placed me in. His hand is a comforting weight that quickly strokes over my fine baby hairs before it is suddenly gone, a quick step back and he is swallowed by the crowd of many relatives.

I turn my gaze to the only other things in the clearing of people. Plain paper, a small stack of glinting weapons, a small bundle of dull purple flowers tied together with plain twine, and a wooden spoon that seemed so out of place, all sat innocently in front of me.

It was a test.

—their eyes sharpened and seemed to spin, bated breaths watching my toddler form—

I barely touched the flowers before I was snatched away by an excited family member. Their joyous words rise along with others.

My future was set.

Its been a long while.

Hope you guys can enjoy this draft that I may or may not expand upon. My own muse has been quick and fleeting; its hard to stay on top of writing.

As always,

M.B. Westover