ab initio, ad infinitum

the prodigy.

PART SEVEN OF THE PEOPLE SERIES. happy 2021! once again, i have no idea where on earth i was going with this one, so please don't mind the lack of direction. stay safe! do good, be well. <3

TH E   P R O D I G Y .

A boy was born, the latest in a line of legends. And as the tales people whispered into each other's ears went, the boy was perfect from the moment he entered this world, with wide, analyzing eyes that drunk in every detail. He didn't cry, and he never fussed. He was just perfection swaddled up, subject to both adornment and envy.

And the prodigy grew up, more perfect with each passing day. Wherever he walked, people's eyes followed; watching in awe or trying to find a chink in his armour. Either way, he never gave them anything to hold onto, slippery and elusive and ever-brilliant. He was a modern-day Adonis, body crafted so artfully, it was as if he were the gods finest work of art that they had accidently left among the mortals. He was always miles ahead of each other, effortlessly surpassing any expectations and boundaries, never breaking a sweat. His mind was sharper than any strike of lightning, precise and cool in a way that on anyone else would be deemed cold.

And maybe people deemed it cold on him too in the moments they thought he wasn't listening. It was natural tendency; people talk. They whispered about the prodigy, how he was ice, freezing anyone who got too near, perfect in a way that wasn't natural, hiding something, how he was cold. He always heard the whispers; he was a prodigy, perfection personified, how foolish of them to expect him to be ignorant of what followed him around.

He paid no mind, somehow welcoming the murmurs of others, the looks, the jabs. People left him a wide berth as days went on and rumours grew, and he figured it was for the best. The prodigy didn't need anyone, he never had. Growing up so brilliant came with its downfalls. He was always what people aspired to be, an object to be admired and spited from afar. He was never the person others came to looking for a friend, or helpful advice. And that was for the best too; he would never be able to comfort anyone.

The first time people called him cold, it had stung. Not because it wasn't true. It stung because it was, and it captured him in a way none of the other words could. He wasn't a monster, contrary to some people's beliefs. He wasn't heartless, he didn't think himself as superior. He was cold. He leeched heat off of whoever got close enough to offer it, until they had nothing left other than the lifeless husks of their bodies.

That was the prodigy's curse.

The greater the distance, the better. The prodigy wasn't dumb, far from it. He wasn't lacking emotions, but he had enough sense to never act on them. His emotions had only ever caused pain and suffering, and he had enough of that.

So he numbed himself.

The words of people didn't matter, because in the end, it protected them, and could never touch him. He was cold, frozen completely through. People could say what they wanted, because at the end of the day, the prodigy completed whatever he set off to do, and those people got to go home safe and sound.

If people got too close, they would perish. That was the prodigy's curse.

It was a heavy weight to carry, but like everything, the prodigy kept a stiff upper lip and he bore it. He always bore it, because he could. He had in the past, and he was still standing. The prodigy may have lost whatever semblance to warmth and normalcy he had a long time ago, but he still remembered the value of loyalty.

The prodigy was loyal.

He would carry his responsibility, no matter what people said and thought. It was his unsaid loyalty to them; he would be alone in his brilliance, and they would stay safe in their ignorance. And the prodigy didn't look down on ignorance. In fact, there was nothing he longed more for. Because those wide, analytical eyes of his that so many mothers cooed at when he was young, transformed into hardened orbs that recorded all of his failures, playing them against the bare walls of his empty house when no one else was around.

The prodigy was a failure. That was the prodigy's curse.

For all of the whispers of people who thought they knew the secrets of the prodigy, they somehow missed the glaring truth. All of the failures that blinked up angrily at the prodigy whenever he closed his eyes. They never paid any mind to how the prodigy threw himself into training himself, improving himself, trading away his cool rationality in the moments he tried so desperately to become better so he wouldn't fail again.

He did. That was the prodigy's curse.

He let people in, and he ultimately failed them. He buried them. That was the prodigy's curse.

He tried to pass on his knowledge, and he ultimately failed at that. The horrors of history repeated. That was the prodigy's curse.

He once attempted to make his own warmth, attempted to share it with the people who whispered about him, and they turned their backs on him in mistrust. He was left alone. That was the prodigy's curse.

The prodigy wasn't bitter by any means, no, he was far too smart for that. Some days he was angry, sure. Some days, he yelled at the gods for making him so tragically flawed; he could do anything and everything expect for in the moments that he desperately needed to. Then, in those critical seconds, he failed. Some days, he let out the rage he so masterfully had learned to lock away in a chest beneath his bed – right beside the other potentially destructive emotions – punching and pummeling until the skin of his knuckles split. He never treats them, lets them heal slowly and painfully, just to remind him the price of his failures. The price is always so high, and he's never the one to pay.

Those days are rare and far between, because through years spent in his own company, his buzzing mind was able to come to one conclusion constantly; destructive emotions helped no one. Because he was the prodigy, and he was perfect at what he did. He knew he had the capability to very successfully act on those feelings which tore him up and threatened to wreak havoc on the world.

At the end of the day, the prodigy knew what he was; he was a weapon, an object, a legend. He understood that these were the ways he was wielded. He knew he wasn't truly capable of much else, and he couldn't say he was hurt. He wasn't elated at it either.

The prodigy understood loyalty and purpose and duty, however. He valued those things. Because those were things that like him, were cold. He couldn't throttle the life out of them with his curse. And so they were companions that the prodigy was not scared of keeping.

So the prodigy did what was asked of him. He kept his distance, he ignored the stories of him, he achieved perfection without letting anyone see the toil he went through to get there. After all, he was the prodigy. He could never be anything less than exceptional.

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