Who are you?

You’re sliding—tumbling--stumbling from your mother’s body, and that’s when your life starts to pulse in your tiny, tiny limbs. You stir as you hit the ground, all liquid and black. Your head lifts, your tiny nostrils sniffing a new air that is much, much too cold for your senses. It settles in your lungs, freezing, oh dear! You lay your head on the ground, resting a miniscule skull that is too heavy, regardless.

You shouldn’t have been born.

You don’t know that, of course. In fact, you don’t know anything. There is a grand titan of a tree that looms above you, a great forest sentinel just for you--but you don’t know that, do you, ignorant, newborn child as you are? You are barely aware of the warm body that ejected you from its womb, how ruined it is because of your unexpected conception. Oh, yes, of course. You don’t know that either, do you?

You almost killed your mother.

Will you learn this, later? I wonder if you will. Right now, you are nothing but the smallest of shadows, a pathetic little thing, let’s be honest. All you’ve done so far is formed yourself from the seed of a demon—oh dear, you’re such a mistake--and accidently attempted to kill your mother. Do those count as accomplishments? I will keep those on standby, if you need those extra tallies.

Ignorance is a bliss, isn’t it? You’re learning how to breathe, but that’s automatic, and I doubt that counts for much as learning. Right now, for you, the world around you is a velvet black unknown, a cloud smothered around your ears and eyes, because, poor thing, you don’t care. Hmm, interesting. You don’t care and your tiny little filly heart is at peace. Does that count as peace, if you’re born with no trouble (debatable, really)? Can a happiness be tallied if one has known no strife? You’d think about this later, probably—with that brain of yours built to think, think, think. Right now, however, you’re at peace.

Enny.

Ah, yes. Of course. You were not born alone. A great, bellowing bleat escapes your maw as you spy slender black legs beside you, already strong, already standing.

She is a thing you don’t even have to learn! She is an always, a constant, the right child you leeched your skin and bones and life energy against to help quicken your development. And you know what? She accepted it! The embryo could’ve absorbed you, intrusive little foaling you are. But no, she decided, I guess, that life would be just that much sweeter and worthy if she had a sister of her own. And no, not a sibling, not a creature born a part from a new seed, a new womb, a different mother, perhaps. No, she decided she needed someone of the same womb-water to call her own.

She.

You do not know her name. You don’t know anything.

“Oh,” you say, because you’re a baby. “Oh.” It is all you can say. You see her standing like that, using these long, tangled limbs as something useful (you still don’t care to notice Mother yet). You decide—yes, this must be a thing you must do! You must emulate your sister and her fine example! Her clever use of her body!

You try to stand, and it’s a fruitless endeavor. You’re so wobbly and the air is so cold and you don’t really care so much, do you? The world is a great, big eh for you. Passionless creature. You were blessed with a whole heart, a whole pair of eyes, a whole set of limbs—all of them pretty and well formed—and you don’t even have the decency to care about standing!

You try again, if only to mimic your sister. The legs clumsily unfold underneath you, and your tiny body is so heavy to you, and you give your tiny snort and heave, heave, heave yourself off the ground.

You don’t make it to your feet. Not quite.