Fluid - Prologue

Before I open my eyes, I’m aware of music humming through my bones and tickling my ears.

It makes my fingers and toes twitch and wiggle. I have a fleeting thought, wondering when I changed my alarm. Then I’m trying to remember what an ‘alarm’ is, let alone why I might change one.

Blinking causes a haze of golden light to stab my eyes, and I close them tight. A little peeking isn’t any better, and it feels like someone has a flashlight in my face.

Wait! Flashlight?

Nah, I lost it. Come back, word—I need to know what you meant. Please don’t leave me; I’ll love you, I promise.

Wiggling about is awkward, and I feel a strange resistance to every motion—not holding me down, more supporting me. The movement of my arms feels like I’m underwater, but I don’t even know how I recognise the sensation.

Underwater? Nah, it’s gone as well. Darn slippery words, stop running away.

Oh, I’m floating. I’ll use that word; it feels bouncy, and the words at last drop into my head.

Floating is excellent and super cool. Mainly because with floating, I get a bunch of other words and concepts that all flow into each other, lots of splashing fun. I have a riot waving my arms and kicking my legs to find the pool’s edge.

Moving about like this is cumbersome since I don’t want to open my eyes again.

My foot bumps into something yielding yet solid, and the music around me shifts. A sound of startlement and curiosity, though I’ve no idea why music conveys things or how I understand them. Kicking again provokes the music to change further because I grind my heel this time.

Whatever is there, I think I stubbed my toe.

A sound from outside carries more music, but it all underlays the words.

I know words. Or at least I know those words.

“Your father isn’t home yet, so stop growing so fast. I want him here when you’re born. I don’t even have a name picked, baby.”

Wait, what?

The concept of being a baby runs me over, and sleep resumes command.

When my brain is in control again, I forget the last time and open my eyes to the orchestra’s sounds. At the stinging pain, I clamp my eyes closed, waving a hand to protest and block the light; I slap myself because of my arm’s clumsy responses.

Being more careful, I cover my eyes, and the golden light is still blinding when I try to see my fingers. Do I not have my fingers closed tight?

I have fingers! Or do I? It seemed like I could see right through them, but I have toes that no longer hurt, so that’s good.

Sighing, I feel fluid moving in my throat and remember the lady’s voice. The concepts run through my brain, and I flip them about, trying to get a grip. Slippery blighters, stay still! Nothing among them explains why so much music is involved. Do I have an opera singer for a mum?

Opera? Nah, forget it, another word that’s run away. Oh, music, I know what music is! Its sounds convey all the surrounding meanings, some bright and cheery, others more low and sad.

It’s awfully noisy out there with folks chattering about logistics and planning to help some people. Heck, it’s loud in here too.

My heartbeat races away to the music’s tempo, and I realise it’s coming from my body.

Waving in victory, I backhand a wall far closer than before. My mother told me to stop growing so fast. How do I control that?

Shifting about, I carefully stretch a foot out to determine how much space I have. Floating is supposed to let me stretch out. Did I get moved to a smaller womb?

There was plenty of space when I was last awake. How long was I asleep? Baby concepts, did you betray me?

Genuinely upset at its betrayal, I can feel my heartbeat speed up, making me aware of something else. Among the surrounding music, there isn’t any song for my mother’s heartbeat or even its noise.

Is my mummy dead? Wait, no, she’s talking to someone new, and she doesn’t have a heartbeat either. Do I have a zombie mummy? Or am I assuming her species? Maybe they don’t have hearts.

But in that case, why do I?

The music tells me so many things, about drinking in sunlight and how to grow tall towards the sky. No, mother told me not to grow so fast; I’ll hold off on that song’s advice for now.

Others outside my mummy sound pretty, but ‌sometimes their music grinds and drags me down. Sad? Grief? Oh! Frustration. Right now, they’re all unhappy about things called plans: rods and string scattered about a table in front of them. Their conversation makes it sound like it’s something to entertain me later, but it’s making them all grumpy.

Having learnt my lesson, I keep my eyes firmly closed and wave my hand at a nearby song. I find something flexible in front of me by giving it a whack. It’s a repeatable experience, wave, thump, and then my arm rebounds, but I’m not sure if it’s because the thing in front is strong or I’m just so weak.

If the latter, when the concept of a baby means weak, it should have told me: weak! The word string starts to stream into so many other ideas that I’m losing more than I learn—time for a nap.

They're still talking about string, hanging things, and proper knots to match their plans when I wake. Words and concepts run one into another, and while I try to hold on, much slips away.

Leaving them to their conversation, I repeat my earlier experiment with my other arm. Waving it across my body gets the same result, hit and rebound, and I go to work trying to get a hold of this sucker. One hand held low, the other held well above, sliding my hands towards each other. It feels like I'm holding a lumpy cable‌. Music from outside had carried the concept of knots with string: is a cable a strong string? Strings and cords need knots to hold things tight, so why am I just floating at the end of mine?

One female seems intent on my mother’s tummy, and I stretch out a foot and listen to her giggling music when I make it move. Kicking out hurts my toes, but I’ve found pushing does the trick; nice and slow gives me heaps of extra space.

Fingers fumbling with my cord, I listen to the music of the ones they get to play with and try to adjust mine.

“Don’t do that.”

My mother’s words contain worry, and her music has the surrounding fluids quivering. I’m not sure how, but I feel her watching me. The words don’t tell me what not to do, but the concept, and the focus of her concern, are apparent in the music. Not only the principle but the reason‌ and the grey concept of death sets my heart racing. Letting go of the rabbit ears that I had awkwardly tightened together, I wave sorry. Hands are fantastic; I’m glad I have them. Though thinking about things I have, I still don’t know why my mother hasn’t got a heartbeat. Do I need to share mine?

Her words to the others include words I’ve not heard before, and new concepts race through my thoughts. I pat the umbilical cord in case it’s feeling sad and hope I didn’t hurt it. I want to be born. We’ll get through this together. Don’t leave me, okay?

Remember me, the important parts of concepts might be what slips away.

But I’m awake, I have a problem. What do I play with now? Oh, the fluid! Holding one finger, I wave it about and listen to the music change. The sound is linking with the concepts that I’d tried to cling onto earlier, but only the simpler ideas let me catch them and my mind flows with their beats. Water is wet, and my mother still doesn’t have a heartbeat. I try to understand her music to figure out why and my body decides it’s nap time. My eyes are so heavy, even though I've kept my eyelids shut. Mean world!

The concept of babies told me ‌they get tired a lot, but I missed the part about someone letting the water out. Waking up from a nap to find the music of the water running down my mother’s leg is slightly amusing but also worrying. The membrane that I've had fun stretching out is clinging  and grasping at my face. Stop being grabby, it’s uncomfortable! When it seems like I’m going to be following the water out, the surrounding walls open up, and I’m lifted, free with two songs surrounding me.

They quickly peel away the thing on my face, and this time when I open my eyes, all I make out are black and white blurs around me. There is mother’s music, another lady in the room, and a third song that resounds with mine enters the echoing room. Mother’s song mingles with the new arrival, a sweet connection that lingers in my mind.

He’s my father! His theme is so fierce and precise, yet so much of both he has directed at himself. Such a different theme from mother’s and the others that I’ve heard talking with her.

Whispering music forms around me, and a spout of fluid rushes from my mouth, distracting me from his song. The three of them make mouth sounds, called speaking another new word, another fun concept. They’re speaking in a musical tongue called Celestial but the words aren’t as pretty as the surrounding music. Being inside mother had muffled so much that I can now hear clearly.

Listening to the song within and beyond the walls gets sidetracked when father offers me names, first Gailneth and then Ordil. Wiggling around in their sounds, I opt for the fluffy Gailneth when my mother asks me to decide. Trying to speak delivers only burbling noises when my tongue doesn’t want to move the way theirs do.

Mother still picks up what I mean, her song effortlessly connecting with my own and plucking answers from my mind.

When I tell her my tummy is grumpy, I get put to my mother’s breast, and my father’s song soon signals its attraction to her. Not wanting to give up the strange-tasting milk, I get a hand free of the swaddling and guard her breast possessively.

“She likes your music, but I think she’s hungry,” Mother translates. “She said it’s her bottle, not for papa.”

Not what I’d meant, but close enough. The theme in papa’s song wasn’t a link to my milk, but my mother’s body for something else. That concept I leave well alone. Adults are icky; I need my brain cleaned. Oh well, at least I’m sure things will be interesting.