3132 words. TW: for blood, mentions of neglect, and child and parent dying from illness

Loved all the prompts, had ideas for each of unwritten scenes for characters from the fantasy world I like to play in, so here's the Rebirth one.

Writer's Jam 2024 Piece

...

Inhale. Exhale. The scent of the brilliant red and white flowers reached her, as she stretched out on the ground, careful not to crush any of them. A content sigh escaped her. The setting sun was taking some of the harsh heat with it, as the adults talked crossed legged on a patchwork blanket underneath some trees. Baby Laila sat on their mother’s lap, trying to eat her shirt last she saw.

A fuzzy ball of yellow and black landed on her chest. Her eyes crossed looking at the round, little, bee, squinting in the warm hues of the evening light. Still. She stayed very still, because otherwise the serenity would be over. It did end, however, despite her not moving a centimetre, as Ammar came crashing through with no thought for the flowers.

He landed on top of her legs, stumbling over plants and twigs, with a grunt. His movements were still choppy and awkward. Too much energy for his small body. Round and soft like the bee that just flew away. He got up, sprinting away, (half stumbling). He was like one of those things Uncle Tristan showed her, with all the drawings that were practically the same, but you were supposed to shuffle the paper too fast for her clumsy hands. A flipbook. Shaky and too fast, except Ammar’s was probably missing pages.

It made sense, she guessed. He was young, small. She didn’t remember when he was born. Mama said she was only two, like Laila. She kind of remembered when Mamma brought Laila home. Two years ago, so she was the same age as Ammar. Was she just as clumsy and small then? It didn’t seem like it. She didn’t see how she could’ve been like him. Mainly, she just remembered a bundle of blankets that made lots of noise. That was Laila apparently. She cried a lot. Barely anyone slept for forever. She didn’t see why Mamma chose to bring her home, but when she stopped crying so much and grabbed her finger in her tiny hand maybe she was kind of all right. Maybe.

Uncle Tristan called her over. It was getting dark, so time to go home soon. She sat up, reluctantly, not wanting to go home. The park was peaceful. It was quiet like the house, but a better kind of quiet. Her eyes scanned the flowers again, remembering each one, cause who knew when they’d come back. It could be tomorrow, or the next day. Either way, practically forever.

One stood out, a round red one, with a dark centre. Missing a petal or two, but it was beautiful. The butterfly on it was a stark mix of black and white, before it disappeared into the sky. She watched it, until she was called for again. In a rush, she picked the flower, sprinting off toward the blanket. When she got there, she cupped the flower in her hands, brushing the soft petals with her thumb. A smile spread over her face, as she turned to her mum, aunt, and uncles.

Uncle Thongchai was the first person she saw, discussing something with Uncle Tristan. She eased over and offered him the flower.

“What’s this, kid?”

“It’s for you.” She hesitated, not sure why. “It’s pretty.”

“Look, uh,” His face made an awkward expression. Tristan eyed him, waiting for something. “Thanks, but boys don’t give each other flowers.” He patted her hand, soothingly.

“Oh.” She held it close to her chest, like she could protect it. “Sorry.” Because what else did she say.

Tristan flicked him in the forehead, and he went cross-eyed. “Bug off.” Then, he turned to her, with his warm, gentle smile, holding a hand out. “I think it’s beautiful.” She placed the flower in his hand. “Thank you.” Then, he placed it on his hat.

Uncle Thongchai looked at him funny. “What are you doing?”

“Looking great.” He smirked, turning to Aunt Carmen. “Don’t you agree, my sweet?”

“Gorgeous, my love.”

It was time to head home, so off they went. Mamma was exhausted, so Aunt Carmen took Laila from her, letting her sleep in her arms, while Uncle Thongchai and mamma talked in hushed whispers. Tristan and Carmen walked side by side. He let Ammar clamber onto his shoulder, legs around his neck, glancing around from his new perch above everything. From down here, she thought he might as well be on top of a tree or a mountain. Uncle Tristan took her hand, interlacing her fingers with his.

…

Two years later, she was peeking out the windows into the same brilliant evening colours, waiting for mamma to come home. Ammar still had too much energy for her liking, but he could focus more. Hold up a conversation. Laila could talk now, too. She was stumbling her way around on fast, shaky legs like Ammar had, not focusing on much.

She liked her better when she sat around and didn’t do much. She’d been getting something off the high counter, and left a stool right up next to it. Next thing she knew, Laila was climbing it and it was teetering wildly. She caught Laila’s wriggling body just as the stool went over, letting her fall into her chest as her back hit the tile floor.

The house was too quiet, so when a crash rang through the walls, it was impossible to ignore. Looking between the hallway and Laila for far too long, she eventually set Laila down, and ran toward it, to find Ammar surrounded by toppled books and an overturned bookshelf. Holding back a groan, she searched him for bruises, but he was as lucky as he was stupid.

Her skin itched and her mind raced. Mamma wasn’t back and her siblings were doing a brilliant job trying to kill themselves.

“Come on.” She grabbed his hand, hauling him up. He groaned and complained, but she brought him to his room and closed the door, hoping Laila was where she left her.

She was not.

Laila was trying to open the back door, so she scooped her up, and dragged her back to the same room she put Ammar in. The moment they were together, it was like their thoughts melded together as they started complaining about being hungry in the same instant.

They were mildly appeased when she promised to bring food if they sat quietly.

So, she turned the stool back over, reaching on her toes for a glass bowl. The slightest tips of her fingers touched it, bringing it into her hands, as the stool teetered and shifted, before she was falling toward the hard ground. Bruises brought pain to her limbs and tears to her eyes. A field of glass shards surrounded her and drops of thick blood fell to her lap when she lifted a hand. A sob tore its way out of her throat. She was supposed to be strong. Brave. But she didn’t feel strong and brave. She felt alone.

The lock in the front door clicked. Voices chattered just outside it, louder once the door swung open. Then all too quiet once they turned into the kitchen.

“Oh, Goddess, oh…” Aunt Carmen’s voice trailed off in shock.

She heard Carmen’s shock shifted to anger, as she sat in the glass, crying harder. It was all too much, until she was scooped into someone’s arms, pressed against a warm chest. Tristan shushed her. “It’s okay, baby, it’s okay.”

She felt instantly safe, pushing her face deeper into Tristan’s coat as Carmen yelled. “You left them all alone for hours!” But that was another time and place. In this one, he carried her into a bathroom, set her on the counter, and bandaged the cut on her hand.

…

Uncle Tristan looked at Aunt Carmen with such love and devotion, it didn’t seem like he could care about anything more. Until they visited later that year and the two of them had their own bundle of blankets, with a little brown hand peaking up out of it and dark, fluffy curls at the top.

Leo. That’s what they called the bundle when Tristan held the two of them in an old rocking chair, outside. Fresh air makes you grow, he insisted. So, it must’ve been true. Leo had big brown eyes, too big for his small head, and no teeth in his grin.

Leo grew so quickly, and she watched every moment. Partly because she loved him, but partly because she loved being around him. It wasn’t quiet in their house. It was loud, not the angry kind, but the lively one. Tristan and Carmen teased and laughed, called her and Leo names with such affection. Leo shrieked and smiled, kicking his feet in the air as Carmen tickled him into submission, with the scent of Tristan’s cooking filtering in.

She loved it. Up until the day it ended, four years after Leo first looked at her with his warm, endless eyes. Leo was sick. He wasn’t breathing right, and getting worse every day. She didn’t know what was worse, the short glimpses she got of him, or when her mum and Uncle Thongchai refused to tell her anything. It was bad enough. Her chest was tight, as a perpetual weight rested on top of her. But, then Carmen was sick, too. She wanted to come visit, but they were reluctant to go near the two of them. Carmen worried about letting them either. No one knew if the illness would spread. So she dropped food off with her uncle Thongchai, keeping contact to a minimum, as Carmen tried her best to take care of herself and Leo as her energy drained.

Tristan was wrapped up in something. Somewhere away. They wouldn’t tell her where or for what either. But they sent messages every day, in a vain attempt to bring him back. They did succeed, eventually. But not until after both Carmen and Leo were gone and the joy had left Tristan’s eyes.

Her mother and uncle told her to leave him alone. Not to bother him. But she imagined him alone in that house that had been so lively and loving. Empty. Hollow.

And, she set out the backdoor, dashing through the night until she was at his door. It took a few knocks before he let her in, eyes red, and face almost as red. He swiped a hand over his eyes, sniffling. “Everything okay, kid?” Her heart hurt. Nothing was okay, but why was he worried about her?

She held her arms out wide, and he accepted the hug, gratefully.

…

Later, that same year, their lives were shaken up again. Uncle Thongchai was bouncing a baby on his knee. Dark wisps of hair over pale skin. She was round, soft, and happy. Her joy spread to him, and his smile brought one to her mum’s face.

Her mum teased him, happier than she’d seemed in years. “I thought you didn’t like kids.”

“Most kids suck.” He retorted.

“So only yours are decent.”

“You heard me.” He snarked.

She flicked his forehead and he swung the baby, Parker, away. “Careful.” He chided.

She tsked and called into the house. “Tristan, come hold this baby, so I can put Thongchai in his place!”

“Are you sure?” His eyes went wide. “It’s only been…”

“You underestimate him.”

He appeared out the back door, wrinkles having formed around his mouth in the months since. His eyes were harder to read now, but he took Parker in his arms like it was natural.

“You don’t,” Uncle Thongchai said. “You don’t have to.”

“I want to.” Tristan insisted as Parker batted his cheek with a tiny palm. He grinned. “She’s gorgeous, T. Amazing.”

…

That was her existence. Life and death in cycles. It was roughly a year later when Thongchai was gone, too. Mum wouldn’t tell her what happened to him. Something with their secrets. She knew they had them and they were important, but that was it.

Mum just sat outside. Staring. Like all the life had drained out of her along with her friend, her brother. That wasn’t the only problem left with them. Parker was a whole year old. And their problem now. Parker wriggled in her arms, unhappy and squirmy, without knowing why. She bounced Parker a few times, trying to soothe her, when thunder hit nearby. Parker started crying, refusing to quiet. More thunder didn’t help.

She turned to her mum and back to Parker, torn, when Ammar and Laila walked into the room. It was probably a bad idea. She hated doing it, but she shoved Parker into Ammar’s arms as she headed to her mum. Glancing back, she caught him dumping the baby to Laila, but she didn’t have time to care.

“Mum.” She was desperate and it showed in her voice. “It’s going to rain. You’ve got to come in.”

Her mum just ignored her efforts, until she got more forceful, to which her reward was to be shaken off. Tears pricked her vision.

…

The older she got, the more wrong she felt. Her skin was wrong, the world was wrong, everything was wrong, and she just wanted out. There wasn’t much she could do for her family (her biggest failing), but she couldn’t figure out why the mirror felt like an enemy.

Being a bit devoid of close friends, she tried to confide in her brother, but it was hard to word her problem when she didn’t understand it. But his confused look told her, he never got that wrong body, wrong skin feeling she did, so she was just weird. Okay, then.

It pricked at her. That feeling, anytime she wasn’t occupied, forcing her attention. Hopefully, solving it would help her fix it, so she thought on it until she spiralled into anxious places she almost didn’t escape from.

She’d always felt off, but it was easier to ignore when she was younger and smaller and life was good. When she was picking flowers and Uncle Tristan was spinning her in his arms. Then, it was easy to put off because life was a series of tragedies and she had to care for her siblings, and then care for her mum when she forgot to eat and went a couple days without sleeping. But, things were settling, so she had time to think. And that was only half of it. During those first couple years where her age ended in -teen, she grew so much taller. Muscle developed along with a couple bristly hairs on her upper lip. Stark contrast to the girls her age who’d started growing a couple years ago, rounding out.

Intrinsically, she knew something was wrong with her. But she’d say that, complain about feeling perpetually crummy enough, until she was taken to a healer and given a clean health report. Peak condition. She was doing great. She didn’t feel great.

Tristan was concerned. He was the only person she could tell. All she knew was occasionally, wearing a hood and heavy clothes, sometimes adults would mistake her for a girl with her still high voice, and her heart did swoops, even though Ammar would be so put off if that happened. She told Tristan and he got all quizzical and cross-eyed.

…

At fifteen, she stood in front of a mirror. Hair down to her shoulders (she’d been letting it grow, it eased that terrible feeling she got looking at herself.) Tristan’s hands on her shoulders stabilised her.

“If feminine things feel right, why not try it?” He’d said when he talked her into trying on one of Carmen’s old dresses. She’d always wanted to, of course he could tell, but it wasn’t allowed. A long, deep, dark purple garment. It was rather simple, but it spun and kissed her ankles when she turned, and that filled her with childlike joy.

“But…” Her tongue tied when she tried to argue. It did feel right, but it had to be wrong. “What would Aunt Carmen say?”

His eyes met hers in the mirror, as her mind brought terrible thoughts. She’d accepted she’d never be enough for mum, but Carmen and Tristan always treated her with love, even if she failed.

“I think,” He started slow. “She’d say she could do your make-up way better than I can, but it’s serviceable.”

Tears appeared, even though she was happier than she’d known in years. He brushed them away with one movement of each thumb. “You look beautiful, dear.”

“What would Mum say?” She sniffled. “Boys don’t wear dresses.”

Tristan could’ve said many things in that moment. He chose, “Why not?”

He also chose to lounge around their house in one of Carmen’s pregnancy dresses that he’d altered (was this planned?), waiting for her Mum to come home and ask “What would Carmen say?”

His answer this time was “That I don’t pull it off quite as well as her, but a close second.”

…

Of course, he was by her side when all the pieces came together and maybe she could actually be a girl. He helped explain it to her mum. Made sure Mum supported her and if not she knew there would be consequences, all said with a charming smile.

Laila didn’t care. “Another sister? Cool.”

Parker was too young to care.

Ammar required work. She knew Tristan talked him through his discomfort, and he came through.

Tristan was doing her hair, when he asked. “You want a new name?” Like it was just a thing people did, like she was allowed.

“What?”

“Living as a girl, I thought you’d like a name to fit?”

“Can I just do that?”

“Why not?” He shrugged, continuing to work her hair into braids.

Well, when he put it that way.

“Where’d you learn to do this?”

“Hairdresser owes me a favour. She’s been giving me lessons since I found her brother’s glass key to his eye case.”

“What?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Her brother’s partner. It wasn’t his case.” He said, as if that made any more sense.

Either way, he was almost done with her hair, leaving it in dark braids strung with red and white beads past her shoulders.

“It looks…” Was that her? “Thank you.”

“Always.” He kissed her head and looked at the clock. “Time to go. Samarra will be at your mum’s house, soon.”

At door, she caught sight of herself again. Who was she? Not the kid from years ago.

“Leonicio or Gabriella.” Carmen had said years ago, when she’d asked what the baby would be.

“Gabriella.” She blurted out now.

Tristan hummed, a confused expression on his face.

“That’s the name I want.” She looked to the floor. “If it’s okay?”

He tilted her chin up. “It’s perfect.”