Chapter 1 ; { `  The Boy With A Headless Doll  ` } 

People believe I was suffering from autism. I am, but not really.
 

You could have been thinking that it is strange when a child realized he was an Autistic, it may seems like he was pretending to be one. But I didn’t. I just happened to know and realized it. People in my school made a fuss about it though, almost everyone ran away from me. They feared me, not because I was much tougher than the rest of them.  They feared me, because I acted differently. I was strange, they said. They left me alone and pushed me to the corner of the room, slowly being swallowed in the darkness. Crying silently, drifted into the emptiness.
 

I have no friends.

I snapped back into the reality when a hand pulled my arm. Stopping me abruptly just in time as a car whirred past and sped down the road. I turned around with my chin up, it was my mother who pulled me. With the crease in between her eyebrows, I didn’t think she felt very pleasant that I wasn’t paying attention. I immediately looked away, because I was never good at keeping an eye contact. “Jiyong, honey,” my mother called out, her voice was melodious and enchanting although there was stress sipped in her voice.

She was stressed, I knew that, she tried hard to hide it though. She was stressing about the fact that her child was an Autistic. Of course, as expected, I always knew that. She placed her free hand over her eyes, fingers massaging her temples. What does that even mean? Was that disappointed or frustrated? I guessed it was both.

She took a deep breath, before she let go of my arm and her other hand fall from covering her eyes. The corner of her eyes were watery, she looked tired.  “How many times do I have to tell you to look at your right and left first before crossing the road?” she scolded, now her hands on her hips.
 

My name is Kwon Ji Yong, and I am seven years old. A not-so Autistic child.
 

I stared at the traffic light that stood next to me instead. It was tall, I let my fingers ran on it and tickled off the worn out paint. “Road,” I muttered under my breath, enough for myself to hear. But my mother was good at hearing whispers. Or it was just me who didn’t know how to whisper? Perhaps the latter was true. I was told that I wasn't good at whispering. “ Yes, honey,” she noted, tired but at least her voice became soften.  “Road,” she said as if I didn’t know what road was but I nodded my head anyway.
 

Perhaps due to how long has silence swallowed me whole, I wasn’t able to speak up what was in my head. Because of that, sometimes I felt like my thoughts spoke louder and little by little, they became real. So real, I could able to see them. I thought I wasn’t the only one who can see black and white blended in the reality; in daily life. I was wrong, I was alone since the beginning.

I asked my mother quite a few times, like why those people still could walk and not getting hurt despite cars passing through them, why they dressed like people in the History Channel on television, how could some vehicles looked so old, why no one seems to notice them at all. Every time I asked her, she would always reply saying that I was just imagining stuffs, or it was all in my head. I was tired of getting into the feelings like being curious of something you don’t know. I came to the point of just believing her, but it changed immediately because of one thing.

One late summer, I got myself a friend. He could do miraculous trick! I admired him so much.

The morning sky was painted with a few shades of faded blue, filled with gigantic marshmallows shaped clouds drifting the remnants of melancholy for the lost hope souls. The summer breeze stirred the clouds bit by bit, sometimes blocking the blazing sun from pouring the heavy heat across the world. The cicadas were nowhere to be seen, probably hiding in the trees, the screeching noise they made were darted through the air. Heat was starting to burn my skin, I could feel a drop of sweat was rolling on my temples. Another hot day, even if it still early in the morning.

Across the road from where I stood, regardless of how many people were there, there was a boy who caught my interest. It was because he couldn’t stop staring at me. But he could have been looking at somebody who stood behind me, so I took a look over my shoulder. I noted that there was no one there except an empty bus stop benches with a rooftop over it to prevent the sun’s heat. I noted that the chitter chatter came from the people who stood at the other side, they talked so loud. I turned my head back and my eyes met his, again.

 No one seems to take a notice of the said boy, they were busy dealing with their own lives.

The boy was pale and had deadpan drawn over his face, not even showing any hints of his emotions. His hair was as black as his eyes, black; deep and lustrous darkness, like a forest pool under the shade of ancient oaks. He was wearing a white sweater with long sleeves that settled just below his thumbs. He wore black short pants that just barely reached his knees. He was a few inches shorter than me so I assumed he could be a year younger. He was hugging a doll in his arms; couldn’t careless with how messy his hair were. I could tell he hadn’t gotten a good sleep because there were dark circles around both of his eyes.

In a way, I could have said he was adorable. However ...

One would look how innocent he was but if you took a second glance, or rather, just look at him closely, you would have a moment for a second thought.  There were a few drops of red ink splattered on his white sweater. Mud stains were covering his shoes, with a little hint of few dots of red. There were red ink dripping from the side of his face, he was rather pale. His tiny fingers on his right hand smeared with red ink as well, I wondered why he didn’t bother to wipe them off. There were a long line of red ink came rolling on his left arm, it was visible because his sweater absorbed the red ink. A headless doll was rested well in his right arm.

How come no one noticed him? Rather, why no adults who stood around him asked him if he needed help or feeling ill?     

I blinked and tilted my head with an eyebrow raised up, giving him a hint that I paid him an extra attention. Like, I’m here if he wanted to talk. But his stare still lingered, I almost could feel how his stare was piercing through me. If stare could kill, I would have died right now.

 I immediately looked away and tugged my mother’s jean. She was startled by my sudden movement, “what is it, honey?” as she caressed my head. I let her did that for a moment before I gently waved her hand away. Sometimes if I felt unease, I would hold my mother, so maybe she was okay with me not letting my hand off of her jeans.

Once in a blue moon, I wondered why mother was so bothered about the rules while on the road. I saw a few people walking on the road without caring about the rules and the cars and the b