Prologue
Five-year-old Felix looked at the car in the driveway with wide scared eyes. He turned to his mother, taking a hold of her hand, squeezing it tightly with his own. "Mommy, do we have to get in it?" he asked with a small voice.
"Yes, honey. We have an appointment with Mrs Phillips. You'll like her, she's very nice," his mother replied, leading the frightened boy to her car, completely disregarding his feelings.
"But I will die in this car, mommy. I am not ready yet," he struggled against her grip. He wanted to get away from the deadly machine.
"This is why we need to see Mrs Phillips, sweetie. Now hop in," she opened the door for her son and didn't let him hesitate much as she forcefully sat him in the backseat.
I was born in a loving family. We had a small house by the local park. We used to be happy spending time together. But there were moments when their smiles would falter, their eyes would lose their shine and a cold look would take over.
The first time it happened was when I was telling them about my day in the kindergarten. I was babbling about a lost doll scandal when I accidentally let something not quite right slip into the conversation.
"And then Stacy screamed at Michael for not giving her doll back. It was so funny watching her face turn red, mommy!" Felix explained excitedly, throwing his hands in random directions as if to prove his point. His mother laughed at the lively spark in his warm hazel eyes. "Then he decided it was enough screaming for him and broke the doll in two! Mommy, he is so strong... Then Stacy started ugly crying. And then, then, I went to her to calm her down. I told her death was natural and she shouldn't be sad for her doll. After all, she doesn't get to suffer any more dressing ups!"
At that, his mother had to wait a minute before the words registered in her mind. Her little baby had talked about death so casually. It worried her. She listened to her son with a fake smile, not being able to shake off the unsettling feeling in her chest as his words were on a repeat in her head.
At the time it didn't look bad enough for me to see a psychologist twice a week. But I kept not so subtly talking about the topic my parents hated the most – death. It only got worse when I mentioned my own.
I had always had a feeling, a thought constantly lurking in the dark side of my mind. It might have been morbid for others to hear me mention my very own end, but to me it was normal; to know when and how I'll go from this world.
The only thing Mrs Phillips actually helped me get over was my fear of cars. I was too young to understand absolutely everything, so I thought every time I was in one, there would be 50 percent chance of dying.
It took two months of countless sessions for my parents to see there were no wanted results. They didn't make me go anymore. I was happy that I would stop seeing Mrs Phillips. She was kind. Her questions, however, made me very uncomfortable.
The small changes started not even a week after. They didn't spend as much time as before. Although I was bothered by it, I didn't dare complain about it. Something about my parents' attitude towards me made me stop and reconsider most of my questions and answers. I still hinted that I'd die but never really said it straightforwardly.
Rumors started spreading across our small tight-knit community. The kids began to avoid talking to me, or being anyway near me in general.
By the age of ten, I was very lonely. My parents had long since forgotten to even acknowledge my existence and I didn't have any friends. I was an outcast without any support or guidance.
For a while it was like that, until a boy named Trevor decided to approach me. Me, being desperate for any human's attention, latched onto him like a stubborn leach. We quickly became best friends. He helped me out with my homework, invited me to his house, played video games with me. It was fun. He moved out three years later. I never saw him again.
That year wasn't a very lucky one. Around the time Trevor left to conquer the big city, my parents chose to follow his example. They packed their stuff and left without me. My dad left a note with the explanation and the schedule for sending me money. They didn't want to be around a freak and be associated with an abomination. So they chose to run away from their problem.
Ever since the age of thirteen I had been alone in my now empty childhood home. I had no one to turn to for advice. I grew up learning all the stuff parents usually teach their kids from the internet.
Nobody made a big deal of it. They sympathised with my parents. They didn't call the authorities to take me away. Instead, they left me to rot in my own misery, hoping to get rid of the abnormality that I was.
I knew I had years more to live. I took the matter in my own hands and decided to show them they don't affect me as they so much wanted.
I gave myself a reason to live when nobody else wanted me to.
