February 6, 1991 – London
The winter air in London was a damp, clinging shroud that smelled of coal smoke and impending rain. In a small, unremarkable terrace house, the silence was shattered by a sound that the neighbors had grown accustomed to—the sharp, rhythmic crack of leather against skin followed by the heavy thud of a body hitting the floor.
Inside, the air was thick with the stench of stale lager and unwashed laundry. Thomas Constantine stood over his son, chest heaving with exertion. He was a man hollowed out by grief and resentment, his eyes bloodshot and unfocused. In his hand, he gripped a worn leather belt.
"You killed her," Thomas hissed, his voice a low, jagged rasp. "You took the only good thing I ever had, and you didn't even have the decency to be worth the trade."
On the floor, nine-year-old John Constantine lay curled in a ball, his hands shielding his head. He didn't scream. He didn't beg. He simply took it. Every strike was a bitter reminder of a debt he never asked to owe. When John was born, Mary Constantine had slipped away, leaving behind a void that Thomas chose to fill with alcohol and rage.
Thomas huffed one last time, tossing the belt onto the stained sofa. He reached for a half-empty beer bottle on the floor, took a long, desperate swig, and stumbled toward the washroom to empty his tank.
Left alone in the dim light of the living room, John slowly uncurled. Every muscle in his small frame screamed in protest. He dragged himself toward the corner of the room, his breath coming in shallow, jagged hitches. He wanted to weep—the kind of soul-deep sobbing that might purge the pain—but he bit his lip until he tasted copper. He refused to give Thomas the satisfaction of hearing him break.
As he sat there, staring at the peeling wallpaper, the world seemed to shift and blur. This wasn't just the pain of a nine-year-old; it was the weariness of a soul that had lived before.
In his previous life, John had been an orphan, a ghost in a modern world that had no place for him. He had grown up in the sterile, cold hallways of a cheap orphanage, fighting for scraps of affection that never came. Just as he had reached the cusp of adulthood, a sudden, violent accident had claimed him, snuffed out like a candle in a gale.
Reincarnation was supposed to be a second chance—a fresh start. Instead, he had been dropped into 1980s London, born to a man who saw him as a murderer. The "backward" nature of this world, with its lack of digital comforts and its gritty, industrial soot, only added to his isolation.
Why? he wondered, his fingers tracing a fresh welt on his arm. What cosmic joke did I play to deserve a double dose of misery?
The dark thoughts began to swirl—vivid images of the kitchen knife, of Thomas sleeping off a bender, of a permanent end to the cycle. He was contemplating whether he should really kill his father when a sharp, insistent ringing cut through the gloom.
Thomas grumbled from the washroom, the sound of the toilet flushing preceding his heavy footsteps. He stomped to the front door, his face a mask of irritation. "What? Who's bothering me at this hour?"
He yanked the door open, but the verbal assault he had prepared died in his throat. His scalp went numb as he looked at the woman standing on the doorstep.
Cheryl Constantine stood there, framed by the grey London drizzle. Her curly brown hair was damp, and her black eyes were hard as obsidian. She possessed a cold, commanding aura that seemed to push back the very shadows of the house.
"Cheryl," Thomas managed, his voice losing its edge.
John stood up, leaning against the wall for support. His heart gave a tentative throb. Cheryl was Thomas's sister, but in every way that mattered, she was the opposite of him. She was the only person who had ever looked at John and seen a child rather than a tragedy.
Cheryl ignored her brother, her gaze sweeping past him until it landed on John. The icy hardness in her eyes shattered, replaced instantly by a tender, heartbreaking softness. She stepped into the house, the click of her heels on the linoleum sounding like a death knell for Thomas's authority.
She moved to John's side, her hands—cool and steady—brushing the hair from his forehead. As she saw the bruises blooming across his face and the way he flinched at her touch, tears welled in her eyes.
"Oh, John," she whispered, her voice trembling with a mixture of grief and fury.
She looked back at Thomas, who was leaning against the doorframe, trying to regain his bravado. "He fell," Thomas muttered, unable to meet her gaze. "Kid's clumsy. Always has been."
Cheryl didn't argue. She didn't shout. She simply reached down and took a firm hold of John's hand. "We're leaving," she said, her voice like iron.
"Now hold on a minute," Thomas started, stepping forward. "He's my son. You can't just—"
Cheryl turned. It was a simple movement, but the cold glare she leveled at him was enough to halt Thomas in his tracks. It wasn't just anger; it was a promise of consequences he wasn't prepared to face.
"You lost the right to call him your son a long time ago, Thomas," she said.
She led John toward the exit. As they stepped out into the rain, John felt the cold air hit his face, and for the first time in years, it didn't feel like a punishment. It felt like a cleansing.
That day, Cheryl Constantine decided that enough was enough. She didn't just walk him out of that house; she reclaimed him. She adopted her nephew, her brother's son, and in doing so, she gave the boy with two lives a reason to finally start living the second one.