Hello there! For this story I wanted to try a go for a mysterious atmosphere. There will be some relaxed chapters that will lighten the story, but anyways, I hope you enjoy.

The Boy's Gift

"Death is a part of life, something we all have to accept." He ignored the voice of the person speaking and continued to play around with his chained necklace. He didn't really care to listen to his lecture anymore. After all, his parents already told him stuff like this. "Eventually death will come for all of us, the question is when will it happen?" He heard the footsteps of his teacher getting closer until there was a shadow looming over him. He looked up and stared at his teachers' glaring eyes. "Tell me, Mr. Cadavere, do you know when you will die?" The boy wanted to laugh at this statement, but only smirked. How ironic for his teacher to ask him when his death will be.

"Is there something funny about my question?" The teacher asked again. This time, the rest of the class looked at the boy, knowing how much of a freak he was. He always wore nothing but black clothes with skulls, and a black hoody covering his face. The only thing not covered in darkness was his bright blonde hair, that was always covering his dark eyes and his pale skin color. They would have thought he was already dead, if he didn't move around when the bell rang. "Well, Mr. Cadavere, I'm waiting for an answer."

That's when the boy smelled it. The horrible known smell he hated. He placed a hand over his mouth and nose. He looked like he was ready to hurl. He looked around but no one else could smell that horrible stench. He's known for most of his life people couldn't smell it; only him. He just never knew why, except he knew what came next. He looked up at the teacher with pity in his eyes. He knew what would happen to that poor man, but he couldn't and didn't know how to stop it from happening.

The teacher noticed the look he was giving him, but mistook it for rudeness. "Well, are you going to say something, or should I just give you detention?" The class laughed at him, calling him witchcraft, it was his official nickname. To him, the smell was sickening. He wanted to say something, but he felt if he opened his mouth he would hurl, so he just crouched down in his seat looking at the floor. Moments like this, when he's the center of attention, he wished he could just disappear. He hated how there eyes just stared, waiting for him to do something so they can humiliate his poor soul. Only then, did the teacher notice something was wrong. He placed his hand on the boys shoulder. He flinched and backed away from the teacher very slowly, hoping no one could notice.

"Are you alright," he asked, but the boy still didn't answer, "do you want to go to the nurse?" The boy just nodded and bolted out of his seat and practically ran to the door. As he left he heard the laughter and fake gagging of his classmates directed towards him, but he didn't care. He told himself he wouldn't care what they thought of him. Once he was in the halls, the smell died down, but he felt even sicker because his teacher had touched him. The smell of his teacher still lingered on him, bringing a wave of disgust that didn't seem to leave, but there was nothing anyone could do. So he looked down at the floor, made sure his hoody was covering his face, and walked to the nurses office. He knew what that smell meant and he knew what came next.

When he made it to the nurse he just said he wasn't feeling well, "Alright then, just take a nap or lie down on one of the beds." He nodded, and laid down as instructed. He stared into space thinking about what happens next, too afraid to fall asleep and end up in a horrible nightmare, but he knew what they meant. He knew what he was going to see, and because of that he felt like a monster. Once again, he begged God to let him be wrong this time, because he knew what that horrible stench meant that no one could smell except him. It meant that the person was going to die, and when the boy went to sleep he saw their deaths. It seems like a normal nightmare, but the next day what happened in the dream ended up becoming real.

The bed he laid on brought him no warmth or comfort, but he was used to it. He always felt cold, very few times did he ever feel warm. Without him realizing, his fingers began to trace from side to side on the fabric that covered the inside of his wrist. The more he thought about his nightmares, the harder his fingers pressed on the fabric. His wrist was itchy; it was itching to be punished. He felt like he was a killer for knowing there deaths but doing nothing to prevent them. Then again, maybe he really is a killer? Which is why he should pay for his sins.