It's hot, it's hot, it's hot, it's hot, it's hot. A childish voice echoed through my mind, screaming.
I don't think I can help you with this one. What am I even expected to do? I couldn't see or feel anything, therefore, I also couldn't do anything.
Over time the screams subsided, until the child's voice became completely silent, giving space to some sort of interference sound, the darkness grew increasingly dim, and the feelings a body ought to have came pouring into my brain once again.
Holy—This is hot! Now I understood what the kid was trying to say, the pain in my head was so intense that I could easily confuse it with a burning heat.
Is this what being born was supposed to feel like?! Gripping my head with both hands I squirmed in place, restlessly trying to find any position where the pain could be tolerated, the interference was so loud now that I was having difficulty hearing my thoughts.
“S-stop!” A childish high-pitched voice screamed. It was a useless request, asked to nothing in particular, the last resort of a despairing man.
But the interference did stop, carrying with it the bulging pain.
“Huh?” The dumb sound was made with a voice that clearly wasn't my own and sounded just like the child's voice complaining about the heat a moment ago.
Then I opened my eyelids as if I had just remembered that I could do that, and what I saw was the simplest of ceilings, adorned with weathered wooden beams, that looked aged beyond their time. Faded cobwebs announced a lack of a cleaning routine, while patches of exposed thatch hinted at what kind of place this was.
As I sat up on the rustic bed, I took in my surroundings more carefully. The room was small and dimly lit, with a solitary window covered by tattered curtains that allowed feeble rays of sunlight to filter through. The air was musty, carrying a scent of aged wood and neglect.
I got up slowly, afraid of some kind of lasting consequences from the headache. Blinking a few times to adjust my vision, I saw the rustic bed supporting my weight. The bed was hard and lacked a mattress; instead, it was cushioned using some sort of prickly, dry weed. The blanket, locked in a firm grip in the child's hand, had a weird texture and smell and was soaked in some kind of red liquid. And the entirety of my body was itching.
“W-wait just a minute…” I tried opening my hand. Lo and behold, the childish hand opened at the same time, letting go of the tattered blanket. “Wha—?!”
Oh! Is the transfer thing. Remembering the talk with the god-like being, I calmed myself. I should probably have been ready for something like this.
So I wasn't just waking up from a retarded dream.
My heart started beating faster, this time it wasn't because of pain or fear. I just received the opportunity to do everything again, in a completely different world. Exciting doesn't even begin to describe it.
Opening and closing the hand that shouldn't belong to me, I let out a long sigh. Doesn't make it any less weird though.
Staring at the poor ceiling I tried to put my mind in order. Awake in an unfamiliar bed and world, I should probably do something. “What are you meant to do in a situation like this anyway? Maybe making sure that I have water and food…?”
However, stopping me in the middle of the very important brainstorming, the door opened, and an elder-looking man came in. Maybe because he heard me talking to myself like a weirdo. In any case, when our eyes met, his face took a relieved expression. He looked like a kind grandpa, but he was dirty, like, way too dirty. Enough for me to assume he was a homeless person invading the house.
He looked at me a little closer and suddenly his eyes opened wide.
“■■■■■■・■■■■!?”
The moment I heard the unintelligible question, my mind was assaulted by a burst of memories that weren't mine to be seen.
“Bucentaur!?1Bucentaur was a ceremonial state galley used by the Venetian Republic for the Marriage of the Sea ceremony, symbolizing Venice's maritime power. The most famous one, built in the 17th century, was destroyed by the French in 1798. In case you’re wondering. ;)” Letting out some nonsensical words I once again clasped my head in pain; in the span of little more than five seconds, the accumulated six years of memories belonging to the boy called Dara came pouring into my brain.
“You don't look hurt. Where in the world is all this blood comin' from?” Paying no mind to my dire emotional circumstances he began patting my body looking for something. Just stop already! I don't need these memories!
But no one listened to my complaints. Weren't I supposed to choose what I do and do not know?
“Is your head still hurting?”
Can't you tell?! The man kept talking to me, his voice growing more concerned each time. But it wasn't like I could do anything about it, I didn't know this man, and I did not trust this man—or that should have been the case.
Alien memories of a life that I had not lived were bursting against my mind, clawing around and installing themselves like some kind of parasite, I shouldn't know where I was, but the alien memories kept screaming at me.
“I'm fine… Uncle.”
The moment I called that man ‘Uncle’, I resigned myself to becoming Dara.
