Call me God, if you so wish, though I doubt such a thing exists. From your point of view, I might as well be one, as I have had to watch you time and time again behave exactly like you said you wouldn’t. But let’s go back, shall we? From your first life to your sixth, which is just about to end as I think this, given that you’re calling it quits with a razor blade to your neck.
There’s no life like the first. From the Sea of Countless Souls, you were selected, plucked out, and thrown into the twenty-first century, where you had the chance to educate yourself on whatever your heart desired and not die from either disease or starvation while still an infant—but that’s never reason enough for contentment in your kind.
So you were born, suckled for thirteen months longer than you needed to, deprived your parents of a healthy sleep schedule, and got into preschool, where you bullied and were bullied.
One of the theories we learn to be able to research the Sea of Souls is the Fixed Iteration Theorem, which states that, on average, the first twelve years of your lives are always the same across iterations. The branching point in all your incarnations is the moment your pheromones start acting up, or, as humans tend to call it, you fall in love.
Accordingly, at twelve, you were swallowed and ravaged by it. There would never be a passion like this one, you assured yourself. However you lived, whomever you met, there’d always be a piece of that person lurking in the confines of your mind.
You played all kinds of games, played around in innocent experimentation with both boys and girls in the gym’s showers, discovered the pleasure you could gift upon yourself, and suddenly, you were fourteen and telling that first love you liked her. And she liked you too. You strained yourself hard, trying to ignore that the reason you didn’t approach her for the better part of those two years was due to her and
