An author walks up to a table with a single candle and a book perched on its prestigious wood, the light of the candle providing the only light and hope necessary for what he was about to do.
The author sat down and wrote and asked,
"Loneliness, what is it?
What can you do about it?
How can you solve it?"
Then he asked an even bigger question.
"Is loneliness something that needs solving in the first place?"
To all these questions, the author had no answer, so he just closed his book and sighed.
"This is number 777, right? Well, I guess."
The Author laugh self-deprecially at his terrible memory
"Hopefully, next time I will be able to answer this question, or even better, be able to answer one question out of the many that I and the others have asked."
He sighed as he closed the book, and the candlelight went out.
The author then lay down and closed his eyes as he felt the darkness hug him tightly and sleep hug him tighter.
As he succumbed to sleep, he whispered, "Maybe next time. Maybe the next one "
The author then fell asleep on the cold but welcoming floor of the temple as the temple's darkness grew heavy with sleep.
-----
The darkness of sleep is awakened by the first light of dawn.
The scent of fresh coffee filled the kitchen as Elijah carefully poured two cups, his hands moving with the ease of routine. The sun had barely crept over the horizon, casting golden light through the window. The quiet hum of the morning was interrupted only by the occasional clatter of pans as he prepared breakfast for his wife, Anna, and their two children.
He moved through the house with purpose, saw that the kids were awake, in some sense of the word, and started setting their plates, and he pressed a soft kiss to Anna's forehead as she walked in from their bedroom and murmured sleepily.
"Thank you, honey."
As she felt his lips on her forehead. This was his world, his life—simple, structured, and filled with love.
After breakfast, he put all their dishes in the sink and stepped into the bathroom, turning the shower on until steam clouded the air. He just stood in the hot water raining down on him, going all in and encapsulating his buff body while he cleared his mind for the day ahead. When he wiped the mirror, expecting to see his reflection, he was met with a hazy, distorted image. His features were obscured, as though the fog refused to clear. He blinked, rubbed his eyes, sighed, and ignored it, knowing if he got annoyed, he wouldn't be able to get past the rest of the day. "Probably just the steam," he reasoned.
Dressed and ready in his blue and white polka-dotted tie, black solid shoes, and his dark blue suit and pants, Elijah kissed his wife and children goodbye, dropping the kids off at school and waving and smiling at them while they run and race each other to class as Elijah shakes his head while laughing and thinking of the many times he did that with his brother, or the many times he wished he did that with his brother, but he just smiled and headed to work. The office was exactly as it had always been—a place of forced smiles and veiled hostility, but a strange, welcoming feeling to those who know it all too well. It was toxic yet familiar, a place where memories clung to the walls like old wallpaper. He then takes an elevator to his floor, and as soon as Elijah arrives, he goes to his office block and sits down in a too-familiar, uncomfortable chair. Elijah stands up, pulls out a small pillow from his computer bag, and puts it down on his chair as he sits down again, making it that little bit more bearable.
By midday, he decided to take his break early, stepping outside and taking the elevator down with his coworker, Darren, who quickly left after. Not wanting to spend another hour with Darren, not being by his side made life just a little bit more bearable. The city streets were alive with the usual buzz of people as they walked and talked.
"So how have the family and wife been, old chum?"
Darren said, clearly exasperated by the work they had just done in the morning alone.
"They have been good. How about yourself? You seem to be having it rough."
Elijah said with an almost half-laughing smile.
"You think life's been rough? No wife, no kids at 20—that's what the kids say nowadays. Crazy, right?"
Darren says with a defeated expression.
"Yeah, I get that, but I am really worried about Emily, my daughter; she's too innocent... I feel like I should teach her to be stronger, like her brother. I mean, he is not strong in the strength sense, but in the fight sense, in defending the people he cares about, and, you know, in knowing when a person is right or wrong. You know she trusts people too easily."
Elijah says with a sad look on his face, his brow furrowing in frustration and soberness.
"No, I don't have kids, remember?"
Darren says with an angry expression on his face, but in a matter of seconds, he breaks apart into a laugh as his glasses fall slightly, and then he pushes them back up.
"No, no, I am joking with you. I have little siblings, so I know that feeling. I'll give you some advice: just let things happen; interfere when you have to, but just watch them grow and learn to be that person you and they want to be, okay?"
Darren said, smiling as he punched Elijah's arm lightly, and Elijah nodded as the corner of his lips slowly started to curl up into a smile of understanding.
As they continued walking, they felt a sudden shift in the air, which made Elijah and Darren stop. Up ahead, a commotion stirred—a crowd forming, hushed murmurs turning into panicked gasps.
Then he saw him.
A man stood in the center of the chaos; his face was that of an old retired construction builder, and his disheveled construction building clothes matched perfectly, a gun trembling in his grip, an arm locked around a little girl's neck. Her small frame shook with silent sobs. She held a pink backpack in her hand loosely as she was suspended in the air by the man holding onto her, her wide black eyes filled with terror as his black hair blew in the wind.
Something in Elias snapped as he saw the scene, a fatherly instinct activating almost instantly.
An instinct to protect his or anyone else's child.
There was no thought, no hesitation—only instinct. Adrenaline surged through his veins as he charged forward through the crowd, and Darren reached for him in horror. Elijah's fist connected with the gunman's face before the man could react. A shot rang out. Pain exploded in Elias's side, but he didn't stop. Another punch. Another shot. His body screamed in agony, but he pushed forward as his body started to go limp, his adrenaline running out, and he thought to himself,
"This won't do. I can't just punch this random guy's face. I don't know him or what he's doing, but all I know is that I have to stop him, but this won't do; my adrenaline is running out for some reason. Wait, did he shoot a vital spot? That doesn't matter right now. All that matters is that I make him drop before I do, so I need his face to be Someone I actually care about, someone who I hate, someone who I would really, really want to punch."
Elijah then slowly sees the man's face turn into his boss's face; his slimy, slick, perverted look and his overweight, obese, chubby face are all too familiar, like everything in his life, but this one was the bad kind. His adrenaline immediately spiked as his eyes dilated with rage, which fueled the force and speed of his punches as they flew and pierced through the air, faster and faster. Everything is disappearing into a black void, leaving only him and the man with his boss's face, as with each
At that point his mind went blank; he wasn't the type of person to curse people under his breath or in his head internally—only light jabs—but there was nothing light about the amount of words and insults he was going to spit, so his mind went blank and went hollow, focusing on one thing and one thing alone.
Punching his boss's face as many times as he can before he dies
If it was the last thing he did, then so be it; he will die doing the one thing he has always wanted to do since the day he got his job.
BANG
Of the gun, the BANG of Elijah's fist comes immediately after, faster and stronger. Elijah landed blow after blow until the gunman crumpled to the ground, unconscious, bleeding, and probably with several concussions. Elijah breaks out of his focus of rage and adrenaline. The weapon skidded across the pavement, empty.
Elijah stands there with 13 bullet holes through his chest. Elijah smiles and does a pose with his fist up in the air, portraying a pose similar to a certain number 1 hero of his favorite manga as a child. Elijah laughs, coughing out blood as he thinks.
"Dang it, I still am a kid. Even after all this time, I am still as childish as I was before. Maybe Darren is right; I should just let things happen. I just hope Emily will be okay.... Anna, please, take care of her."
Elijah turned to the girl, his vision blurring. He reached out a trembling hand and whispered, "Stay safe, Emily."
But that wasn't her name. That was his daughter's name.
A cold numbness spread through him, and as he collapsed, his last thoughts were of his family—their laughter, their love, their warmth—as he saw Darren crying and pulling him into a hug, and he thought how Darren was family too, well, in his sense at the very least. He then closed his eyes, feeling Darren's tears on his suit, as Elijah smiled happily, knowing that he did a good thing but still worried about his family mostly.
Then, darkness.
Silence.
And then... crying, but these weren't the cries of a 20-year-old man. He was the cry of an infant.
His body felt impossibly small, wrapped in soft fabric. The air smelled unfamiliar, tinged with lavender and something old, something regal.
His vision adjusted. A woman's face hovered above him, but it was unfamiliar. She wore a maid's uniform, her expression one of reverence and awe.
He tried to speak, but only a weak, infantile cry escaped his lips.
Panic gripped him.
He wasn't dead.
He was reborn.