The Dread of Dmaned

Almost a year has passed since I arrived in this world. I can now crawl and pick up small objects by myself. Standing and talking a bit is no longer an issue, although learning to balance in an entirely new body is quite challenging. Babies usually start picking up on things early on, even before they can talk, because they are like clean slates, eager to learn about the world they've entered. Although I share this curiosity—dare I say, even more than a typical newborn—I am not a blank slate. Having spoken another language for seventy years makes understanding their language a definite challenge.

Nevertheless, I have been trying diligently and have learned a few words and their meanings in this new language. Words like "mother," "father," "sister," "brother," "caretaker," "nanny," "bed," "clothes," "hungry," and "blood." However, it would be a lie to say that I can understand them when they converse. And I am no liar.

I have also learned what the woman, man, and girl—my new family—have named me. My name is Caelan Aetherisin.

I feel ready to learn more now; I don't feel as sleepy or tired as I did before, and the nourishing blood from my mother's breast makes me feel more energetic than anything I've ever experienced.

To my surprise, after a few more months, I began to feel my body grow faster than before. At only one and a half years old, I looked like a three- or four-year-old by the standards of my previous world.

Then it happened. One morning, after I had awakened, been fed, and bathed, a tutor was brought into the room. From what I could gather, my mother seemed to be telling me that he would teach me how to read and write while also helping to expand my knowledge of the world. To say that I felt elated would be an understatement.

I was taken to another room, where I sat on one side of a round table while the middle-aged man sat on the opposite end. The old woman stood by my side. The man began teaching me the language, and from what I could extract after trying to understand him for maybe an hour, along with attempting to read the children's alphabet book he had given me, I realized this language was unlike English. There were no alphabets; instead, they had pictograms. These pictograms, as they called them, reminded me of the Chinese characters I had struggled to learn in university. While they were not identical, the familiarity helped ease my understanding. The pictograms could be combined to form words, with fixed alterations that affected their meanings.

Eventually, the class came to an end. The old woman escorted me back to my room, where the wome— my mother awaited me. I ran to the bed and fell into her embrace. The familiar warmth and scent helped calm me, soothing the throbbing in my head from trying to absorb so much new information. I nestled my face against her soft, warm bosom.

She loosened her gown strap and began massaging her breast. Her inverted buds, which still captivated me as much as the first time—if not more—emerged. I happily latched on while she held me warmly in her embrace, my eyes closing in contentment.

From that day on, the classes became part of my daily routine. I learned more about the language until, slowly but surely, I could hold simple conversations. I still sensed that my rate of growth was somewhat accelerated, though nothing compared to the sudden spurt I had experienced when I was one and a half.

As I continued to grow, I started noticing some peculiar things—more peculiar than drinking blood instead of milk or appearing like a four-year-old while still being nearly two—which raised questions in my heart.