A Life Foretold

Chapter 1: It's Only Time

2523 words.

"My name is Killua Zoldyck." I already began to notice hostility. A small audience awaited patiently, seated in a circular formation. "And my father is a substance abuser, but that's far from the only thing he abuses." You can be open, I told myself. Someone needs to know the whole story. Someone else. "It began with the loss of a heartbeat."

That's when the drama began, but my life started much sooner: summer camp freshman year.

It was a boarding camp made to fulfill kids' dreams, but for me, it was slavery, shackles and chains dragging behind my every step. It was a camp that gives opportunities. Opportunities for the future, so childhood meant waiting--waiting for adulthood, and adulthood meant waiting for retirement. I envied those who enjoyed the moment, not a care in the world, just living amongst the flow of life. Grandpa told me those who look ahead are smart. If so, intelligence is a prison.

Another year of summer camp. Another Bore.

I remember so vividly the smell of the forest: wet, clammy. Each leaf clung to my shoes, mud dampened the soles, and my backpack stuck to my skin. Bugs buzzed, some disgusting, some not, and stationary wind kept the weather stagnant. I followed the crowd like livestock, but I never blended in enough.

Each assigned cabin had four beds. The faculty miscalculated when assigning my short-term home, which campers called Base. There were four students and an extra assigned to cabin eight. The extra slept on the couch.

"Only losers are sleeping there, and I'm not a loser." A teen with ruffled brown hair had said.

The others agreed. Everyone simultaneously turned to me, eyes filled with pity, demise, disgust, or annoyance. From that point on, I spent as little time at "base" as possible. Mornings, I explored. Noon, I waited for night, and at night, I bathed under the twinkling night sky alone with my thoughts.

As for socialization, I listened from a distance. It was always the same egotistical talk of young boys: interrupting each other by boasting. That's when I noticed another boy my age. Spiky black hair, eyes a myriad of browns, and happy, a smile always plastered on his face. Counselors loved him, kids admired him, and animals would rub against his sun-kissed legs. I started gravitating towards him like a moth would with light. He always caught my attention as I watched from afar, but getting any closer risked me catching flame.

Not once did I hear his name.

It happened one night when the sun said its goodbyes for the day. I patted along the river's edge in a straight line, heels touching toes and toes touching heels as a small child would do when coming across a sidewalk curb. The wind gusted for night exclusively, sheering the surface of the water, and tugging the short hairs away. I came across the bridge. Campers aren't allowed across the bridge due to the danger of falling from such height, especially with kids jumping off thinking of the water as a cushion. To me, the bridge was the structure between freedom and captivity; life and death. I always paused at the cement line. Sometimes I would place a foot over, testing the waters, but I would retract immediately.

Until the day I had enough. I took off, running against the cement until reaching the peak of the arch. Nothing happened that day, and that's what bothered me. Nothing to look forward to in this dreadful, waiting-on-time life, nothing to go back to, nothing worth the suffering. Nothing. My mind was blank as I slid a leg over the railing. I wanted to jump, end everything on the bridge signifying life and death because neither side was any different for me.

The next leg over the railing.

I wasn't thinking. For the first time, my mind was blank. I gripped both hands behind me, looking down below: darkness like falling into an endless void.