Part I – Rebirth in South Central
The sun bled through torn curtains, thin shafts of gold cutting across a room worn by poverty and resilience. Paint peeled from the walls, flaking like the scales of some forgotten beast. The linoleum floor was cracked and curling, its once-bright pattern dulled by decades of footsteps. In the far corner sat a twin bed, its frame squeaking with every shift.
Upon that bed lay a boy—no, a man trapped in a boy's body.
Isaiah opened his eyes to the familiar ache of memory. His limbs were chubby, uncoordinated; his cheeks soft; his voice still high-pitched. But inside—inside burned the fire of seventy-eight years. He remembered cities he had built, corporations he had led, lovers lost, enemies crushed. He remembered dying, alone and bitter, his empire crumbling like sand.
And then—rebirth.
Now, in this small House in South Central Los Angeles, 1980, he breathed in the scent of oatmeal cooking in the kitchen, thick and sweet, curling through the doorway and clashing with the stale smell of cigarette smoke embedded in the wallpaper. The clink of a spoon against a pot rang out like a patient metronome.
"Isaiah," came his mother's voice—soft, but edged with exhaustion.
Maria stood at the stove, stirring the pot. Blaxican, her features a mosaic of African and Mexican heritage, her hair pulled back in a scarf with strands escaping to frame her caramel-brown face, lined with worry, though she was only in her twenties. Life had demanded too much of her too soon.
Isaiah watched her with eyes far older than hers. He wanted to tell her everything—about business, about money, about survival—but what wisdom could a toddler voice offer without sounding insane? He had to play the role of a child, though his mind throbbed with strategies, regrets, and longing.
Maria turned, a chipped bowl in hand, and set it on the table. "Come eat, mijo."
He slid off the bed, his small feet slapping against the cool floor. Each step felt strange, even humiliating. Once, he had commanded boardrooms with words sharper than knives. Now, he waddled across peeling linoleum in thrift-store Superman pajamas. He climbed onto the chair, hands gripping the edge, peering into the bowl of steaming oatmeal.
"Eat up," Maria said, sitting opposite him, pushing the sugar bowl his way but using only a sprinkle—rationing everything, stretching every dollar.
Isaiah scooped a spoonful, blowing on it as a child should. Sweetness coated his tongue, but beneath it he tasted the bitterness of circumstance.
"Mom," he said, his small voice carrying a seriousness that startled even him, "I'm gonna make things better for us."
Maria laughed—not mockingly, but with the tenderness of someone who knew children always dreamed big. "Ay, baby, just eat. That's how you'll make things better—by growing strong."
Isaiah nodded, hiding the storm inside. Growing strong wasn't enough. This neighborhood, this system, was designed to break them. She deserved more than peeling walls and sleepless nights. But all he could do was shovel oatmeal into his mouth, each bite a vow.
The day stretched on, the sounds of South Central filtering through the thin walls—radios blasting funk and soul, cars backfiring down cracked streets, voices rising in arguments, children laughing in the courtyard below. The world outside was alive, messy, and dangerous.
Maria left for her shift at the laundromat by noon, kissing Isaiah on the forehead before handing him to Abuela, who lived next door. Bent with age but strong in spirit, the old woman's eyes gleamed with stories from another world—Aztec warriors, La Llorona, saints battling demons. Isaiah listened, rapt, though he carried lifetimes of his own stories. Stories were survival. They wrapped pain in meaning, clothed hunger in hope.
That afternoon, with a stub of red crayon found under the couch, Isaiah stepped into the courtyard. Concrete burned his knees, rough enough to scrape skin, but he didn't care. He pressed the crayon against it, drawing lines shaky at first, but guided by memory. A figure took shape—a warrior with spiky hair, fists clenched, energy radiating from his form. Goku, from a Japanese cartoon, glimpsed his past life. The strokes were imperfect, but the idea glowed with power.
Other children paused. A boy with a frayed Dodgers cap tilted his head. "Who's that?"
"A fighter," Isaiah said simply. "Stronger than anyone. He protects people."
The kids leaned in, curiosity burning. Even Abuela shuffled closer, squinting at the figure. Isaiah's small hands moved faster, tracing energy lines, sparks seeming to leap from chalk into imagination. The courtyard transformed—from a cracked lot in a forgotten neighborhood into an arena, alive with heroes and villains, battles and hope.
A police cruiser rolled by, its presence heavy, but officers glanced down and moved on. To them, kids were scribbling on concrete. To Isaiah, it was the beginning of something greater.
That night, as the sky turned orange and purple, Maria returned, weary but smiling at the sight of her son crouched over his drawing. She scooped him into her arms, body tired yet heart alight with pride.
"Mi artista," she whispered.
Isaiah clutched the stub of a crayon to his chest like a relic.
And in the echo of memory, he heard again the voice that had carried him from death into life:
"What will you create?"