This is where the story begins.
The mind is truly the most marvellous of instruments. It possesses the singular ability to weave miracles of invention and ingenuity while conjuring artistry of fantastical splendour—a tapestry of wonder that exists both within and beyond the scope of our universe. And yet, for all its grandeur, the mind remains bound by the constraints of our physical bodies.
In my humble case, it was the fragile body of a young girl by the name of Charline, whose mind, alas, was reduced to a substandard state by an injury. Perhaps one should not be surprised that, in the grand theatre of life, we are all cast in roles that suit us—either by design or, more likely, by accident. Still, I recovered well enough to delight the medical community, who, like the audience at a play, are ever so fond of improbable survivals.
Given the happenstance of such a violent act, I may excuse myself for recalling precious little. How silly and forgetful this delicate head of mine seems! Yet, I do remember, from the fragments of my dreams, familiar faces. Their bearing was filled with parental care and youthful vulnerability, and they performed an act worthy of the lead roles in a tragic play—an act so devastating that it reduced my once-handsome skull to this sorry state.
I should feel grateful for the otherwise utterly dreary domestic life were it not for the occasional bout of destructive hysteria. How delicately the lady conducted herself, like a tragic heroine in one of those lamentable novels of doomed romance! I was merely a side character caught in the misplaced fervour—a hapless figure from a story whose role is of utter unimportance and destined for calamity.
As thrilling as domestic life may seem, I ought to return to the topic of my recovery. My head healed surprisingly well; alas, the good doctor remarked upon a scar that would forever reside beneath my hair. This kind of thing might be called a blessing in disguise, if one had a very particular humour such as I do. For while my scalp appeared none the worse for wear, my mind was less eager to follow suit. Nonetheless, there is reason to rejoice! I dare say my wit did not suffer a jot, and I seem to have retained all my mental faculties after my recovery. However, my memories proved less reliable. On occasion, I found myself conjuring images of another life—one of comfort and familiarity, nurtured by kindly parents whose hands seemed to work with meticulous precision, tailoring clothes as part of their occupation while simultaneously offering guidance to me. These vivid visions were clearly figments of my imagination rather than reflections of reality. Yet, who can resist a phantom when it is dressed so beautifully in the most alluring of garments? Alas, I chose to keep my fantasies private. One must, after all, guard against the appearance of madness, even when circumstances might offer a plausible excuse for it. Still, I must wonder: what is a memory? Is it truly a reflection of reality filtered by our addled minds, or is it merely a fabrication for our own convenience—much like the lovely little lies we tell ourselves to survive?
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
On the topic of recovery and survival, I resolved to assure my caretakers of my health, both physical and mental. I did notice, however, that my speech came haltingly, unsure of how to imbue my vocabulary with the meaning I envisioned. The German tongue proved to be an obstacle I had yet to master. Attempts at speaking this accursed language rendered my speech embarrassingly clumsy and dim-witted. To my astonishment, I discovered that my true voice flourished in English. What a delightful language! The tongue of philosophers, wordsmiths, and novelists of the utmost skill—of all things cultured, witty, and decadent. Indeed, my current eloquence seemed to borrow from those very poets, and I found that my very thoughts flowed more lucidly when conducted in that charming language.
Yet, as captivating as introspection may be, it must eventually yield to pragmatism. My newfound lucidity demands a plan—a strategy to secure a future that is neither destitute nor, worse, mediocre. And so, I must ask myself: what do I want? The dreams and regrets, the ambition and downfall—the protagonist and antagonist of my own story. What is it that Charline truly desires?
“We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.”
A fire kindles within my bosom—a flicker of determination. There is no joy so invigorating as the pursuit of a tangible goal. My soul stirred and my mind cleared with a sense of fulfilment. As I perused through my memories for a fitting word to name this stirring, I noticed how inadequate every term felt. How inferior and unfitting they all seemed to the very thing bursting through my chest—yet all words failed to describe what lies within my heart. Alas, I resolved to rely on a metaphor. Many may have heard this one: a picture speaks a thousand words. I cannot say I agree. For I proclaim this: a mind will conjure a thousand images and more—an endless sea of scenes and eternal moments. It will fabricate emotions so intense that they feel like the truest of memories—the joy and despair we shall feel while venturing through a universe, a realm we may unfold in the palms of our hands through mere words:
This is where the story begins.
