Chapter 2: 1. To Start From Scratch

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*Throb... Throb... Throb... *

. . .  Hot, it is quite uncomfortably hot.

The heat accumulating in and out of me are not suited for flesh and blood, and that's why there's almost no attraction to hot water pools to outgoers.

But. . . I see a phantom image from the pulsating walls bridling with veins and from its coccoon, comes out a butterfly.

Staying still, waiting and waiting, until the time is ripe for its own self to unfurl its wings, and ride along the winds to wherever it wants to.

The cycle of the previously slow, slimy caterpillar to soon the free, pleasing butterfly equals one to another. It doesn't stop, as its kindred will make more divided clones just as equally interesting as they previously are. But they will all still turn pale, and back to the ashes. 

I used to thought that, if I were to give my parents the graces they always wanted, grandchilds especially, maybe I can't stop worrying about treating others and can actually start to treat myself most. . . was, that is. 

I don't even know who I used to be, where I came from, and more so about my acquaintances with their blurry faces and mumbling voices. 

I... Forgot... Everything...

*Beep, beep, beep*

That sound... it's reminiscent of heart monitor.

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Maybe... maybe this is how those old folks suffering dementia feels 'till the day their eyes looks soulless?

. . . I Don't Know Anymore.

"-a'am, please hold o-!...". Voices of the nurses, possibly assisting a woman yet to grace another life to the face of the world, brimming with challenges to overcome... and consequences to bear.

"-ling, hold me!". Another voice, closer from me, shaking the walls around me with the veins pulsing faster, makes me wonder what is going to happen to me next while they're going about with their own main event. 

"A A A A A H H H H H H H ! ! ! !". Her scream makes my blood boil. Not of anger, nor desperation. A feeling, of one's self soon to feel... Alive. 

. . . There is light at the end of the tunnel.

Closer to it, my vision blinded by the setting lights, are greeted with an unprecedented present gifted to me, unknowingly : 

Life. 

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