SWNOVELXO Chapter 1: Dignity
Sari sat hunched over his journal, the pen trembling as he wrestled with thoughts that had haunted him for a quarter of a century. As dusk faded into night, the city stretched infinitely beyond view. Yet here within these walls, silence persisted, interrupted now and then by the faint murmur of traffic in the distance.
"Happiness has been illusory to me since I was a kid." he wrote, the pen carving the words into the thick, textured paper. He paused, running a hand through his unkempt hair, and glanced at the cracked mirror on the far wall. His reflection stared back—gaunt cheeks, weary eyes, and a look so empty, it felt as though it belonged to no one.
The fractures in the glass seemed to multiply as he looked, each one a jagged line cutting through the ghost of who he once was.
His mind drifted to his grandmother's living room, where the rich aroma of jasmine mingled with the earthy fragrance of her cherished potted plants. The afternoon sun filtered through lace curtains, leaving delicate patterns on the timeworn wallpaper. It was the one place he had ever felt truly secure. The one place he'd ever known as home.
"Remember, Sari," her voice had been warm, steady, "you can't pour from an empty cup. Tend to yourself first, child, or you'll find you've nothing left to give anyone else."
But that wisdom had failed to follow him into adulthood. As the years passed, happiness became a mirage, receding no matter how far he reached. Simplicity—something he had once longed for—remained just out of grasp. His mind flickered to the darker days of his youth: the plate smashing against the wall, its shards glittering like tiny daggers on the kitchen floor.
"You don't think what I do is enough, you ungrateful brat?" She had snapped, her words came out like venom. Before he could answer, the plate shattered against the wall, shards scattering across the floor. The smell of breakfast—tomatoes, eggs, butter—filled the room, now tainted by the sharp tang of anger.
He remained still, his chest constricted, as the anger blazing in her eyes gave way to something fragile, something shattered. Without a word, she turned and disappeared into her bedroom, the door clicking shut behind her. Left alone, he cleaned the wall, his tears mingling with the streaks of yolk and tomato juice, his hands trembling uncontrollably.
He still loved her. On her good days, when she sang softly while stirring soup, or combed his hair with a gentleness that seemed almost foreign, she was his anchor. On her bad days, though, the storm inside her threatened to pull them both under. The duality of her love had shaped him, leaving him searching for stability in a world that seemed incapable of offering it.
Sari's pen hovered above the journal as he struggled to pin down his thoughts. He wrote about the disease, the cruel inheritance he could neither escape nor forgive. Huntington's, the doctors had called it, a condition that would strip him apart bit by bit.
They'd used words like "degeneration" and "decline," cold and clinical terms that stripped his pain of its humanity. To them, it was another diagnosis. To him, it was a death sentence.
He'd only been twenty-three at the time. Now, four years later, their predictions had come true. His muscles twitched uncontrollably, his movements jerky and awkward. His thoughts, once sharp as a blade, often slipped away like sand through his fingers.
He set the pen down, staring at the half-finished page. His colleague's words came back to him, spoken over cheap coffee in a café too loud for the weight of their conversation. "It's impossible to find happiness alone." they'd said, their tone casual. He had nodded at the time, but the phrase had gnawed at him ever since. Now, with the disease eating away at his body and mind, the words felt like a cruel joke. Alone was all he had ever known.
He stood, his legs unsteady, and crossed the room to the window. The city's lights stretched endlessly, indifferent to his despair. Somewhere, people were laughing, loving, living. The thought filled him with both longing and bitterness. He returned to the desk and reached into the drawer beneath his journal. The cold steel of the revolver met his fingers, its weight grounding him in the moment.
Sitting on the bed, he stared at the cracked mirror again, its fractures seeming to multiply in his mind.
Sari exhaled sharply, lifting the gun to his temple. His finger hesitated on the trigger as memories flooded him—his grandmother's soft laughter, his mother's fleeting smiles, the warmth of sunlight filtering through lace curtains. His breaths were shallow, but his resolve was firm.
"Dignity," he murmured, his voice steady. A single, deafening crack split the silence, and the world went dark.
At first, there was nothing—just an endless void, weightless and soundless. Then came warmth, surrounding him like an embrace. It wasn't fire or sunlight but something soft and cocoon-like, muffling the harshness of the outside world. He tried to move, but his limbs were unresponsive, tiny, and fragile. Shapes and colors swirled in incomprehensible patterns.
A strange vibration thrummed through him, accompanied by muffled sounds that felt oddly soothing. Slowly, light filtered through a translucent barrier, faint and hazy. A voice reached him—gentle, rhythmic, and filled with a tenderness he hadn't known in years. The vibrations grew stronger, and suddenly, he was moving, or rather, being moved.
The warmth dissipated, replaced by a cold cut through him, as if he had been born into a river of ice.
His lungs burned as he drew his first breath, a wail escaping him before he could comprehend its purpose. The air was raw and alive, overwhelming his senses. Through blurred vision, he glimpsed shapes—indistinct but familiar in their human forms. A face loomed above him, smiling with an unguarded joy that took his breath away.
The voice spoke again, soothing him as a pair of hands cradled him. He couldn't understand the words, but their melody filled him with an inexplicable sense of comfort.
Then the realization struck. He was a baby.
Fragments of his past life flickered in the recesses of his mind—his journal, the revolver, the disease. They felt distant, like a dream slipping away upon waking. He had died. He was certain of that. And yet, here he was, beginning anew.
The absurdity of it all hit him like a wave. He had spent his final years consumed by despair, convinced that his story was ending, only to find himself thrust into a new chapter. The thought was both liberating and terrifying.
As he lay swaddled in unfamiliar arms, his mind began to quiet. The faint rhythm of a heartbeat, the warmth of human contact, the soft hum of a lullaby—these were the things grounding him now. He didn't know what awaited him in this new life, but for the first time in years, he felt a flicker of something he couldn't quite name.
Perhaps it was hope.
Or perhaps it was the promise of a second chance—one he wouldn't waste.