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He always had a gift.
He was of slight frame, always just a bit smaller than the other children in his class. His gait was gangly and stumbling as a newborn fawn, his dark eyes, a deep brown like freshly roasted mocha, always darting across the room aimlessly.
Ever since he was little, he always had great expectations placed upon him. Even though he was not even their only child, but it was his gift that bestowed the burden of overbearing parents upon him.
When he was three, he took up reading his first books. He never had to learn how to read, much to his parents' blessing, and when his brother grew up alongside him, just one year ahead, he still was struggling with writing properly, whereas James started taking up longer and more complex books to read, books that they would otherwise gift children to read in elementary school.
He was an odd child. The nursery staff could not help but feel bewildered as little James preferred to retreat to a calm corner, immersed in reading or observing random things around him for hours on end.
While all the other children were gathered outside to play, he remained lonely, and no matter how hard they tried, he seemingly did not even register their presence.
The other children avoided him just as much as he avoided them, though.
It was fruitless to try and get them to play with the strange little child. His eerie silence, his bemusing mannerisms, they vexed and confused and even scared those around him.
His sixth birthday was soon to come when everything changed for him, all of a sudden, when another entered his life, a girl so unlike himself, bubbly and effervescent and determined to make friends with him.
At first, he was reluctant to return the favor. But even he eventually opened up, and soon, James made his first real friend.
Her parents, of course, disapproved, but they could not deter her to visit her new friend, who lived in the outskirt alleyways. Everyone else eventually grew to shun the family, unwilling to understand their strangeness.
But for him, it was as if a whole new world opened up before him, and they shared their worlds, their thoughts and feelings, everytime they met at the small creek that was not yet interred in concrete like everything else was.
One day, she brought a new toy.
It was small doll with striking blue hair, fashioned out of yarn, big, wide glittering glass eyes, and a kooky smile.
He himself rarely had any toys to play with - not because his family was particularly poor, but because they valued his education above all else.
Instead of dolls, toy cars, or coloring books, it was textbooks, math problems, and standardized tests.
His siblings, though, were always given toys, instead - not many, but more than he could claim to have.
He remembered all too well when he saw said doll in the storefront window of a toy store - yet his father was forbidding, dragging him away as his eyes were glued upon the display, and even as he threw himself on the floor and cried, they scolded him.
"Don't waste our time, will you?"
He felt so, so jealous.
So jealous and slighted, that soon enough, an argument unravelled between him and his friend.
A childish, foolish dispute, over something so meaningless as a mere doll.
He didn't understand, why wouldn't she just give it to him?
Why was she shouting as he tugged at its limbs? Why was she crying as he pushed her away? All he did was just to take it for a while. Why was she so angry?
She clawed and pecked at him, her eyes teary as they continued their senseless, childish fight.
Her crying and shouting was so loud. It was ringing in his ears.
All he wanted was that everything was quiet again. And he remembered that he saw something his father did as the noise of the birds outside grew too loud- and he grabbed a small boulder, and struck her down.
She tumbled and fell, her small body now lay adrift lifeless in the creek, the doll beside her.
He did not understand.
He apologized to her, he brought her food and drink.
He even patched up the doll, so it was all neat again, just as new, but she wasn't waking up. Was she still angry at him? Why was she not saying anything, at all?
He tended to her wounds in vain, and each day they only grew more and more, and she remained still, her body feeling cold.
He clutched his head and screamed, wailing in agony.
She wasn't going to wake up, ever again.
He laid her to sleep underneath the small tree where they used to play together, his hands raw from burrowing.
He remained silent, and more and more, he withdrew himself from the world.
He didn't care about his grades, anymore- however, his father was more than enraged about his faltering success.
More and more bruises.
He first examined a small rat he caught, and the scalpel dug into its little body, through fur and flesh.
It didn't move again, even as he stitched the cut as good as new.
Then, small dead birds and cats were found more frequently.
He failed. He always fails.
A classmate confronted him one day in the washroom of middle school, first year.
Blood trickled down the tiles of the corridor.
He sobbed.
His parents grew suspicious, and everyone was at unease.
They were looking at him, weren't they?
They cannot find out.
They know.
More and more people disappeared around him.
His fingernails were coated in dirt and dried blood.
He stitched up another small bird he found by the sidewalk, wounded.
It died in his hands shortly before he could finish his surgery.
I just wanted to help.
His father towered over him.
He had no choice, it was his life or his father's, that night.
I just want to show them I can be better.
Everyone was watching him.
Mother could not find out, too.
I didn't want all of this to happen.
Even his brother confronted him, one night.
He ran.
He ran, and he never looked back.