Rebirth

Chapter 1: I Guess We Start Here, Huh?

Chapter 1: I Guess We Start Here, Huh?

Journal

15Mar2035

Dear Diary,

I guess we start here, huh? So, why don't we back it up to the beginning...? The beginning of the end for my life as I once knew it was Karissa. Karissa Youngblood. That's still the most familiar name to me, even after living fifteen years as Kyla. Kyla Yeager. Even those once in a generation phenomenons who remember their previous life, usually those memories start to fade as young as being a child. Everything slips further away, out of reach, without the memory bank we thought we should possess.

The memory of my past isn't what I wish it was, for that's the reason I am leaving my family tonight, in hope of reuniting with the past...

...even as I write at the bus station, waiting for my bus, I can't help feeling a million miles away, just like I did back when I was thirty.

The wind rustles the pages of my journal, clasping one side down as I curl a wild strand of my hair back into the tame mass.

I remember it just like it was yesterday. I'd been searching for help, for a very long time. My mind raced, the voices were loud, and the fight for control of the personalities within me became a chaotic mess. I hoped that by writing out what the voices wanted, that they'd be heard, and I could get peace. Even so, just as I would finishing writing the story of one, another would grasp the mic, clambering for center stage while the spotlight shifted to the next star.

It was tiring, more so on my spirit than energy. Sure, I loved the way my voices could allow me to craft exquisite worlds of breathtaking wonder. Tales of real-world issues told through fictional eyes, it was a way to cover the heartache, pain, and suffering I'd been a part of...or someone I knew to tell their story. Often, silenced...this was a domain where I could escape.

Not only did the voices continue moving on to their stories, I couldn't help but lavish in the limelight myself. I felt a rush, every time I would write the next score of the tale my voices wanted to let burst at the seams. It was addicting in a way, and what I believed to be a healthy outlet, turned savage.

I became a prisoner once again, only this time, I wasn't just a slave to the voices, the personalities splitting at a whole new high. No, I thought too highly of myself, that's how I started to fall. I believed the world, and everyone owed me something for what I'd done for those who needed stories in their darkest hour. The only problem, I had no stories to read that could help me escape from my own reality.

Instead, my reality began to spiral out of control.

Wheels squeak, bringing my gaze from the pages on my lap to land on that of the bus ready to bring me home. The Greyhound would take me to my journey's end, where I can finally be happy. Closing my journal, placing my pen behind my ear while gathering my belongings, I take one last look around what should arise some sort of sadness or homesickness...however, I feel nothing.

Disconnect, that's perhaps, the only thing I truly feel here.

"Ticket," the bus driver stoops low, tilting his head to the side as he sizes up all fifteen years of this self.

Releasing a sigh, I withdraw the ticket I'd purchased with the savings I'd earned, my ceramic piggybank having taken the blow for my freedom, for my escape. After handing the ticket to the bus driver, he punches it with a clip before handing it back to me. Taking my time down the middle aisle, other passengers are already getting cozy, settling for a nice sleep as the midnight bell tolls off in the distance.

I'm unable to fall asleep, even as I take my seat and set up, even as the bus pulls away from the station and begins its rhythmic drive upon the pavement that should lull me off to sweet, sweet serenity.

Withdrawing my journal, I start the next entry while leaning back against the window of the bus, my pillow providing a sheer barrier.

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~K. A. Young