Testament of My Regrets

The world seemed to distort within itself as a fiery sensation churning rose from the deepest pit of his stomach, making him want to retch while also curling upto himself.

His head was pounding as if a huge sledgehammer was beating down on his skull, but from within. His temples throbbed, his heart thundering in his chest, a frightening rhythm in its speed.

It was beating so hard as though it wanted to get out of his ribcage.

His lungs were burning from the lack of air, pleading for breath as they did so, his senses were blurred, blanking out every so often. He could vaguely hear a distant beeping sound which was something so unfamiliar to him that it made his skin crawl.

He sucked in a deep, greedy and desperate breath as his lungs hurt from the action.

His eyelids felt extraordinarily heavy and his limbs weak, as though something was pressing down on him without mercy.

He struggled to open his eyes wishing peer at his surroundings. See where he was and hope, hope that he had survived the ordeal.

Despite the chances of it being close to none. He hoped.

Though he didn't deserve to.

As soon as he opened his eyes with great difficulty, he was greeted by the sight of an unfamiliar colourless white room and the beeping sound that gradually became clearer and clearer with each second that passed.

At first he was calm, or so he tried to think of himself.

Was he truly calm?

His sight darted all over the room that felt so unfamiliar to him, drinking in the sight of it as he wondered on the possibility of an unfamiliar territory. He opened his mouth to make a sound, wishing to speak, only to find out that all he could do was wheeze and wheeze pathetically at that.

Hia throat felt parched like the dry sand of an unforgiving desert with its endlessly howling wind. He wheezed and tried to sit up.

He looked down at the hands that felt so strange yet familiar like his own except for the absence of calluses he'd gained from years upon years of painting. From the paint brush. These hands were pale, unnaturally so, slender and seemed to be so frail as he tried lifting his hands and found that they were entangled by some sort of strange translucent wires and a fluid flowed in it.

He was confused. Appropriately confounded and a little scared. This place was strange and definitely not the country he was so intimately familiar with.

What were these wires anyway? What sort of liquid was being injected into his veins?

Was he kidnapped once more and just after a fatal one at that?

He reached out to touch the weird mask that seemed wholly useless and yet, somehow, it seemed to supply him with air of breath.

Just as soon as he touched it, wanting to inspect or at least remove it from his face, a startled gasp broke the ghastly silence of the seemingly lifeless room.

Just where was he? And where was he taken to?

His head snapped to the direction of the sound as already weak his hand shook while the mask rested on his face.

"I'll call the doctor!"

The strange woman dressed in white clothes and a white cap (was that a cap? He had no idea) said breathlessly as she hastily ran out.

Why was she in such a hurry? He blinked, wondering the endless possibilities that came to his mind.

It took him a second to realise that the language she spoke wasn't English, it was some other language yet, strangely, he understood her perfectly.

What was going on?

That set off a wave of panic in him. Where was he?! What had been done to his mind for him to understand a foreign language??

He tried to sort out the irregular pattern of his breathing yet it yielded no result. Harsh panic settled in, various unwelcomed thoughts jumped up and down in his brain, leaving his already very weak lungs even more breathless than befre.

The noisy thoughts turned aloud, louder and louder, they clamoured in his mind, serving a perfect recipe for him to worry even more than than he already was.

It was pitiful, really.

There was once a time where he has thought that he wasn't someone who panicked or turned frantic all that often.

But now? Just look at him.

More importantly, where was he? Did something happen to him?!

For all he remembered was breathing his last in his arms, as the man he had loved so dearly apologized for things that had never been his fault.

Soon after a chaotic pattern of footfalls approached where he was present as the closed door burst open and a group of people entered, nearing him.

This pulled him out of the panicked and worried daze he was constantly stuck within for the past few minutes.

Upon seeing those strangers — who had potentially abducted him and also experimented with his brain — dressed in white near him, his hackles rose and his body tensed.

"Who are you?" He finally managed to ask hoarsely as a result of prolonged period of being unused.

His words were immediately followed by a fit of cough. His voice was the same but strange.

No, this definitely wasn't his voice, it couldn't be.

"Don't worry Young Master, we are doctors." The man in the forefront spoke soothingly.

The confused him further, doctor? Why'd he need doctors?

And like hell he was about to believe these strangers.

"Doctors, what doctors?"

"Yes, Young Master Lin, doctors. You can rest assured it's just some check up. It doesn't matter if you are feeling a bit confused, it's normal after being in vegetative state for so long."

Wait what? Vegetative state? What was that?

And who's Young Master Lin? Why were they referring to him as Young Master Lin??

"What are you talking about?" He asked. "Who's Young Master Lin? Where am I?"

The so-called doctors — who might also be his captors— exchanged glances at his words, their expressions turning grave. No one spoke up for a while.

Finally, the doctor who had previously took the initiative to speak to him took the lead once more and said, "It seems that Young Master Lin is suffering from short-term memory loss, but worry not. We are sure you'll recover soon."

He was at a loss for words. What recovery what memory loss?

His memories where impeccable alright? He was now beginning to take offense to these words.

He was not someone to look down on people all that much but these commoners (peasants, really) claiming to be doctors were starting to annoy him.

"You are Lin FenXiang, second youngest son of Lin Family of Beijing and ex-captain of the First Special Ops team of China. You were caught up in a crossfire while trying to annihilate a group of dangerous terrorists and got injured in the process," the doctor sighed. "You are currently in the First City Hospital of the imperial capital. All injuries have been taken care of, but as your injuries were pretty bad, you've been in vegetative state for so long your body is weaker than it was before. However, you should rest well, we'll go and inform your family of your awakening."

Captain? Team? China? What was going on? What Lin FenXiang? What family?!

He was an orphan till his last breath!

"What?" He voiced out his thoughts.

"Rest, Young Master, don't pressurise your brain too much for now." The doctor — unaware of his inner turmoil — attempted to sooth him.

"Wait minute!" He said. "Please tell me what's year is this and what are you talking about?"

The doctor looked at him with something of a mix of sympathy and pity to exhaustion and understanding and answered politely. "It's 24th of sixth month and the year's 2022."

With that the team went back to check him up and left shortly after, leaving him with the chaotic thoughts that seemed endless.

Somehow, he'd travelled to a whole new time. He was at least more one hundred and fifty years ahead of his time and his own death!!

He was, supposedly, in future, in an unfamiliar country with an unfamiliar but somehow heavyweight identity to make the matters worse.

His thoughts soon turned far too chaotic for him to bear and he found himself loosing consciousness out of exhaustion.

This body even had a family!

...

"Drystan!" The desperate voice in his dream was coloured in worry and distress. As the rapid sound of footfalls sounded from behind him, he felt himself fall as he slowly but surely lost consciousness.

"Drystan... I'm sorry, I'm so, so, sorry! Please, please, please don't close your eyes, stay awake, stay awake, you can do this.. Please.."

He pushed himself more into that familiar embrace as his beloved sobbed while holding him.

"Hey, love, don't cry. Please.. I'm fine.. Don't," he weakly reached out to push a stray lock of hair behind his beloved's ear. "I'm sorry, forgive me?"

He awoke with a start, gasping for breath as he did so.

"Careful A'Xiang, you're still weak." A gentle voice reminded him with a name not his.

He was Drystan Meyer, an orphaned painter who had just an empty mansion and the long passed down knowledge of painting in his possession, a painter who'd found his muse but now gone was his life as Drystan Meyer. Now, he had somehow replaced Lin FenXiang in this modern world.

He had been flooded with the memories of the original owner of this body who by a serendipity looked like him but his life was nothing like Drystan's.

While Drystan was born in a declining noble family. He later became orphan and was forced to use his passion for painting as a source of income to support himself while also working hard to once again bring his family to fame.

Lin FenXiang was a man (he was 23) born with a golden spoon shoved in his mouth since a young age. He was taught with strictness and corrected with love and later became an outstanding man with high-standing position in society.

He had what Drystan never knew was like to have –– a family, people who had his back. Someone who shared his flesh and blood.

Drystan envied him. But what use was the envy? Life is never fair, is it?

Oh, he did have something FenXiang didn't.

He was an artist and the greatest desire of an artist aside from being famous was to find their muse, their source of unending inspiration.

Most artist spend the entirety of their life in search of their muse but never found them.

He was one of those extremely lucky ones to have found his muse, someone to call his own. Whom he loved with passion and tributed later part of his life in painting him and his glorious beauty, his splendor and his perfection. Painting him down to make him eternal. For the late generations to know of his devotion and their love.

Unfortunately, now Drystan had lost him and that knowledge alone was more than enough to break him.

However, for as long as he lived, he still breathed, he'd never forget him, his touch, his care, his tender affection.

For so long as he lived, he, Drystan Meyer (or was it Lin FenXiang?) would forget himself but not his beloved.

"A'Xiang, A'Xiang, are you uncomfortable somewhere?" The gentle woman asked hoarsely, concern lacing voice.

The gentleness of her voice was warmed his heart.

Now that he'd replaced the original owner he'd try his best to never let his family suffer, of course that is without losing himself in the process.

"I'm fine, mom. Just tired."

"Then rest son," she said pressing him lightly on the bed. "Rest more. You deserve it."

Yes, Mrs. Lin. Lin FenXiang deserves the rest he has gone to. He thought as a itch to rose in his heart. But rest assured Mr. Lin I'll look after your family in your stead.

═════⊹⊱≼≽⊰⊹═════

Author has something to say:

Author: This is a foetus and unedited writing of mine. I started this novel in 2021 and then left it as it was, only to actually upload it here this year. So there might be typos and inconsistencies which I didn't edit due to lack of time.

I promise my writing has improved as this novel continued, please give this work a chance if you can!