Higher purpose

Have I ever believed in a higher purpose; the many tales of mighty heroes of the past who were destined from birth to accomplish something great in this life? More likely no than yes. I do not remember exactly what happened to me before, but, in my opinion, I always left such fabrications for believers. To those who really have the right to talk about this. I don't know if I myself was a believer or an atheist? Most likely the second, but I'm afraid that I'm not destined to know the exact answer. And now I'm sitting and thinking, maybe all these stories about fate and God are not just some kind of joke?

Did I remember the first years of my new life? I'm afraid I can't give an exact answer. When I try to remember how I spent my infancy, only separate, soapy fragments come to mind, which are remembered in my head due to the brightness of events in the past.

Here is my mother, a very beautiful and young woman treating my leg after a bad fall. Her red hair is tied back in a tight ponytail, her face lit only by a reassuring smile. Blue eyes complement perfectly even facial features.

Moments sometimes float in my head as she tries to teach me words. The most different, starting from what a car is and ending with who a bear is. In general, as mentioned earlier, I have quite a few memories of childhood, especially of the earliest infancy. Until the age of 1, I have only one memory: I walk unsteadily, my legs almost do not hold me, threatening to give up just about slack and let me fall right to the floor. Nothing is visible ahead, except for the woman's arms opened for hugs. Mom is happy to watch how her child takes his first steps towards her.

Each step is given with difficulty, the distance of more than five meters seems unimaginable and long. I take a hesitant step, then another, and another. At the end, already near my mother, my legs treacherously fail, and I fall right into her arms.

My mother raised me alone. I do not remember a single memory, even from early childhood, about my father. I try not to think too much about what difficulties my parent might have faced in the past. It is quite possible that I could have been a playful child, although I think I would still love her. I didn't really try to get on my mother's nerves about my father, realizing that this topic could be extremely unpleasant for her. And, to be honest, I myself am not particularly eager to see my father. It's just that for me this meeting has absolutely no spiritual and moral value.

I wonder what my parents were like then, in a past life? Was my father there? Or maybe I myself was already a parent ... I don't know. For all the years here, I never remembered anything, sometimes only the same muddy and soapy memories come to mind, as about my infancy here. But unlike them, they come ... and immediately disappear ... Perhaps this is the highest plan or a deviation from fate? Maybe the fact that I got a new life is just a little joke that should not have happened? Who knows, maybe someday I'll find out about it.

But I am grateful to fate for a second chance. If not for her, I might never have met my mother. As far as I know myself here, she always tried to make my childhood happy and cloudless. I myself am glad that I was lucky to be her son. Am I the only one who thinks that there are quite a few travels in my life? Adrenaline and movement? Perhaps that is the way it is. It's probably ridiculous to ask this from someone other than myself, because only I should know the answer to this question. And I don't think that something that I talk about to myself in my head will also lead to nothing good ...

*

July 28, 1999

A little boy, four and a half years old, stood in the living room, skeptically examining his reflection in the mirror. Looking at himself, he has squinted eyes, from where the blue iris of the eye was visible, examining the silhouette opposite.

With one hand he covered a large yellowish stain on his summer white T-shirt. With his other hand, he combed the falling bangs of his brown hair to one side, so that they did not fall into his eyes.

Beside him, on the floor, lay an open glass bottle of apple juice, the contents of which had long since spilled onto the surface. A minute earlier, part of the bottle had dyed the boy's white shirt a yellowish tint. But he didn't care. He squinted at the reflection opposite, thoughtfully scratching his cheekbone under his right eye with somewhat twitchy movements. He was worried and obviously nervous, although outwardly he didn't really show it.

— Peter! Peter! - A formidable voice of a young woman was heard nearby, but from this it did not cease to be beautiful. — Peter Maximoff! - An angry woman, about thirty years old, finally managed to attract the attention of a child.

Looking away from the mirror, Peter looked at his mother, Isabella Maximoff, with a frightened look. Looking into his eyes, the owner of red hair made the boy nervous, and this time signs of fear were reflected on his face. His light brown eyebrows rose, threatening to go on a long journey into space. Blue eyes frightened began to rush from side to side, subconsciously looking for a way to retreat. His mouth opened, so much so that if a deaf person looked at him, it was quite reasonable to think that he was screaming.

Isabella looked at her young son with mock malice, but as soon as she saw his face, her own expression softened, gradually showing Peter signs of weariness. Seeing the transformation of the mother's face, all the boy's feigned fear instantly vanished, showing his mother a cheerful smile.

"A great actor is dying in you," the woman said wearily, shifting her gaze from her contented son to the glass bottle lying on the floor, "Well, how do you understand this, Peter? How many times have I told you not to litter in our house?

- I didn't litter! the boy exclaimed confidently. — The bottle itself decided to slip out of my hands, honestly!

- Yes? Isabella asked, not believing a single word of her son. Her eyebrows raised doubtfully, showing her attitude towards his words.

"Have I ever lied to you, mom? Leaning down, Peter lifted the bottle lying on the floor. Somewhat distressed, he squeezed his right palm, which, due to contact with the vessel, instantly became very sticky.

Once again looking at her child, the woman only sighed wearily. Taking the bottle from the boy, she went to the pantry, which was right next to the toilet door, in search of a bucket and a rag.

"It's okay," she began to mutter under her breath, "I still wanted to give you a bath, and the floors should have been washed yesterday...

Throwing the rag into the bucket, she lifted it by the handle, and going up to her son, with her free hand, she lightly squeezed his brush, heading to the bathroom.

Filling a bucket with water, she began to get Peter warm water into the bathroom. Without waiting for it to fill up, she forced the already undressed child to sit in it.

"Will you wash yourself again this time?" - at the exit from the room, she asked her son, who had already leaned his back against the bathroom.

- Yes, yes, - he nodded with a smile, - You know, I'm already quite an adult! And anyway, what kind of stupid questions, I wash myself already ... - stammering, he began to sort through the numbers on his fingers, - 4 months!

Smiling back, the woman calmly left the bathroom, leaving Peter to himself. Isabella has always been openly amazed at how fast her son is growing. At the age of four, he was already far ahead of his peers in development. She believes that her son is a real prodigy. But on the other hand, such an advance in mental development had a negative effect on Peter's communication with other children.

When she left for work, she left the child in kindergarten. There was a hope in her soul that Peter would easily find many friends for himself. However, in the year that he attends kindergarten, he never made a single friend. He himself told her that he was simply not interested in communicating with other children - they were too small for him.

With a weary sigh, Isabella placed the bucket of water on the floor, soaked a rag and began to clean the house.

At the same time, lying in an already filled bath, Peter thoughtfully examined the ceiling of the room. All sorts of thoughts swirled in his head. One idea seemed to him crazier than the other.

"Maybe this is just some kind of joke?!" - he again began to scratch the cheekbone under his right eye, which made it clear that he was tense.

The reason for his tension lay in something that had occurred to him only 10 minutes before. Memory. This happens to him sometimes, soap fragments of his past life climb into his head. Usually he receives unnecessary information: about his favorite food, a computer game, or a movie ...

It was the latter that came to his mind. The film, although it would be more accurate to say, is only information about the character of the film. He had a memory of himself... or just his namesake? Peter Maximoff, an extremely fast mutant with long silver hair and... everything? No other information came to his mind.

Silver hair... He touched his damp, brown hair dubiously, brushing it back. No, it can't be that he, Peter Maximoff, turned out to be a character in the film ... This is all just a joke, because he didn't have any super speed and silver hair.

"I hate the memories of a past life," he muttered to himself under his breath.