A Life Foretold

Chapter 2: It's Only a Feeling

1999 words.

July 5th, two days before my birthday, my step-grandmother passed away.

The term step-grandmother didn't fit her because she was so much more. She was an adopted mother to my mom, someone every grandchild would wish for, kind even when it didn't benefit herself, I would even consider her more of a mother to me than anyone, and now she's gone. It was almost as though she was the backbone of the family, kept everyone together and safe. I have yet to find a kinder woman. And she was the last one in the family that deserved to die, but she suffered. Cruel how life decides fate.

I remember the night when my father barged into my room, screaming. Me, barely awoken from slumber, glanced at my clock to find it was two a.m. But everything in me paused when noticing my father cry. He never cried, and that terrified me. I struggled to find my voice, "What happened?"

I didn't receive an answer, but I jumped in the car anyways, Alluka asleep in my arms. I almost drifted off as we all drove in silence, head nodding, eyelids wanting to glue shut. My parents mumbled in the front seats, but I grew too tired to listen.

Ambulance lights pierced the night sky. The alarm shrieking, parked in front of the driveway I always drew chalk on with Grandma. I didn't wait for permission, jumping out of the car and running into the house. Two men stood side-by-side, frozen at the sight. Grandpa had my lifeless grandma in his arms. Her always-fixed hair draped along her shoulders, eyes closed, and colorless. Tears immediately clouded my vision as Grandpa yelled to the doctors, "You were too late! She's gone! She's gone."

Just six hours prior, I was waving with a smile as Alluka chased after her car cheering temporary goodbyes. Or, what we thought was temporary. The death was sudden, too sudden, memories of her alive and well too fresh in my mind to accept reality. But she's gone.

The last thing I remember from that night is crying. Just crying.

Father didn't bother to show up to her funeral. I read a speech, didn't cry for the sake of others, but the dam was near shattered when Grandpa came up to me, puffy eyes and a pale face. "You know, Killua. She loved you the most."

I began to wonder how much sadness a person could take before dying. While death was not my wish, the concept of feeling emotionless was.

You always hear the saying: You don't know what you've got until it's gone. And the realization hit hard, but it hit Father harder. Grandpa stayed locked in his house, and we didn't see him for months. We lost both grandparents The Night No One Speaks Of.

And...when...

"Killua?"

I blinked back into awareness. A blonde woman had called my name, blue-ish eyes narrowed, sympathetic. However, the hostility still wafted from bodies everywhere. "Right, sorry," I cleared my throat. "My father began drinking from there."

He was the hostile drunk, the unapproachable sort. After breakfast, I'd throw away disposable napkins only to open the trashcan and see empty beer bottles, overfilling and spilling; littering and scattering across the floor. Before school, I'd find him passed out on the couch, but he never bothered us because his 'drinking time' was during sleep hours.

Days, months, and it was summer once again—summer going into sophomore year. Mother no longer felt comfortable leaving me with the boarding camp I grew to love. Instead, it was two weeks of rigorous music camp.

I had a backpack heavy from music weighing down my back as I entered a modern building. I did what I do best: concealing my existence by keeping to myself. I didn't even bother to introduce myself to others, just moped to the nearest practice room, and slammed the door shut. I pulled out the Prelude and Fugue in B flat major from the well-tempered clavier by J.S. Bach.