It all started where it usually does iypes of stories. I died.

  I don't remember much about my past life. Or at least the parts about my family and friends have been blurred into oblivion. I know I had a loving family. Parents, definitely. Sibling(s), maybe. Friends and lovers, not so sure.

  I bet you're not ied in what my life used to be, but what it is now. To disappoint many among you, no, I did not wake up in a womb, about to be squished out and soon to be smacked on my bum by a pervert (a.k.a. doctor.) Nor did I wake up in my bed to find that the memories of my two lives had been merged. No. That would've been too simple.

  As long as I remember, I instinctively know things. For example, I didn't have to read the alphabet like a normal kid. I began my reading with words. And didn't that freak out my mother? (More on that ter.)

  Okay, so as I was saying I kuff that a toddler shouldn't be aware of in normal circumstances. Add that to the fact that I was born in a middle-css catholic family in Bromley, London. Normally, that would be good news as that's much better than being born in a third-world try.

  The first problem is of course my 'loving' family. My father was the only one among the two who truly loved me unditionally. Despite me being a freak of nature as my mother used to sometimes call me. He spent most of his time with me whenever he was home. I used to think that my mother must be terrible in bed as Dad would rather py catch with his toddler than py adult games with her.

  It was only ter I found out the reason. He was diagnosed with advanced paicer when I was just three. His medical bills sky-rocketed and he couldn't spend as much time at his work as he used to earlier because of his worsenih.

  My mother used to shout at him a lot for it. Being a toddler, I didn't want to get iween them. And that oime I tried when I was four, I was baded across the face by my mother.

  That was the first time I saw my father hit my mother. I decided immediately that it was better to just let them be. At least there was no hitting when I wasn't involved.

  That was also the day when Dad told me everything.

  "I won't be here long, love," He caressed my hair after I was done sobbing on his chest, "Daddy has to go away."

  "Are you dying?" I asked bluntly.

  He sighed out loud before chug, "Of course, you'd know all about that." He rubbed his face tiredly before looking me directly in the eye, "Yes, I have at most two years to live. But you never know what may happen." He finished in a somber tone.

  Fresh tears pricked my eyes as I hugged him again, "Why you? Why couldn't it be her?" I asked between sobs.

  "Don't say that, love," He rebuked, "Your mom loves you a lot, she's just… sad that I'll go away. Now promise me ohing."

  He held me by my shoulders and carefully looked me in the eye again, "Promise that you'll take care of her. I know she'll need someoo rely on, and after me, you'll be the man of the house, so promise that you'll love her and care for her. But most importantly, promise me that you'll be happy as much as you ."

  I nodded with everything I had. I didn't want to disappoint him any further.

  He didn't live much longer after that. He died a week before my fifth birthday, on Christmas Eve. Less than a week before the beginning of 1994.

  At that time, it hurt. A lot. But such is life. His funeral was a quiet affair as he didn't have any family in Engnd, being born and raised ile, USA in his early years. Dad just had an uncle in New York, but even he didn't show up. Dad didn't have any other family so the visitors were mostly his friends, co-workers and neighbors, and of course my mother's retives.

  After the funeral, life came back turity of sorts. Luckily for my mother, Dad had taken insurance before I was born. It wasn't too much money, but we should be fortable for a few years at the very least.

  I was feeling more and more loha home. You must be thinking at least I had my mht? Right?

  Wrong.

  She had married my father straight out of college and had been living with him for the st 10 or so years without w a single day in her life. And now she bmed me for her misfortune. She never ht said it, but she might as well have.

  I tried to expin to myself that it was her way of g with loss, but you could do that only so many times before you get disillusioned with your life. And yes, I know it is fug weird to feel that before even being a teenager, but such was my life.

  Now, this was only the first problem. The sed problem came in the form of the year. I was born in January 1989. Yes, the era wheer wasn't avaible for us on folk. Heck, even mobile phones were a thing for the rid nobility with sky-high prices for both the ha and operating charges.

  In the absence of such resources, my mother sought out help from the church regarding my talents. While most of the priests were impressed by my quick grasp of nguage and even offered to take me uheir wing, (I still shudder at the mere thought,) there was this one old e who insisted we call her sister. (The only person she could be a sister of was Adolf Hitler.) So, this e used to look at me warily and began ting verses from the Holy Bible whenever I was in her close proximity.

  At the time I thought she would probably bee better with the passage of time. So I was on my best behavior and gave her my biggest smile possible.

  Unfortunately for me, it had a totally opposite effe her. Seeing my smile, her looks of wariurned into pt, aually, my mere sight would cause her to give me a look of deep hatred.

  Some of her words must have reached my mother's ears because that was the time when she began distang herself from me and spent most of her days in the gloom, drinking away my father's insurance money.

  Life was hell, yes, but I survived. Before someone goes on a tirade about not knowing the difficulties of the poor uneducated children in some parts of Africa or other suderdeveloped regions, please don't. If only I was a little older, say, by 5 years, I wouldn't have such a problem.

  But I wasn't. Do you know how difficult it is for a 5-year-old to buy groceries when his mother is probably passed out in a ditewhere? Or to avoid getting the polivolved when any sane person take a look and straightaway lock her up for child negligence? Or to simply reach the tertop so I could make something edible for the two of us?

  No, you fug don't. So reserve your judgment for someone who cares about it.

  Each day was a struggle, but I somehow made it work. I khat if I didn't grab life by its tits, I would bee depressed and kill myself off. So I found joy in little things which most people don't. It was difficult, but that's how I spent three years after my Dad's passing. That was a brief summary of my life for the first eight years.