My name is Natan Ethan Nichols. And here's a piece of the shit that is my life.
Ever since I was little I've been different. Not in the cute "I'm special" way. In the way that something inside me is broken — or maybe wired in a way it was never supposed to be.
At 6 years old I found out just how dangerous that difference was. I could hear things no one else could. Heartbeats from the other side of the building, whispered conversations in the cafeteria, even the sound of a zipper opening three classrooms away. And the strength… that came all at once, like some animal waking up inside me.
That day at school I was just playing. Another kid took my toy car. I told him to give it back. He laughed and gave me a light shove. I shoved him back.
The kid flew about four meters. Slammed into the concrete wall. Collarbone shattered, spinal cord ruined. Tetraplegic for the rest of his life. I was six.
It turned my whole life into hell. Lawsuits, threats of juvie, moving cities, changing schools. My mom never blamed me out loud. But I blame myself every single day. I wake up in the middle of the night seeing it again. Hearing the impact. Feeling the silence that came after.
After that day everything changed. The anger started coming out of nowhere. Explosions I can't control. I almost never get hurt. I hear everything. And the strength… it runs through my veins like I've got gasoline in my blood. Every day I asked my mom: "What the fuck is happening to me?" She always gave the same answer: "That's the inheritance your father left you…"
Every time I heard that, I hated that guy I never even met even more.
My father. The biggest coward I never met. He was with my mom and at the same time messing around with my aunt Samantha. Result: my half-sister, born two days after me. She grew up normal. Calm. Big family, grandparents who spoil her, house full of people. I grew up with a mom who — even though she has money and a financially comfortable life (the second "inheritance" from my father) — I can see that none of it is enough for her.
My aunt Samantha (who isn't even my mom's blood sister) and my sister's grandparents were the only people who kept me from turning into a real monster. They treated me like a person even though I was the family problem. They're the reason I kept trying to hold back the thing living inside me.
Today, at 14 (almost 15), I'm the guy nobody wants around. Not because I'm weird. Because I scare people. Because I've already put guys in the hospital. Because when I get pissed, things break — and sometimes it's bones. At school I'm the bully who rules through fear. Nobody messes with me. Nobody says shit to my face. They only whisper when they think I can't hear. But I always hear.
State School – 11 a.m.
The bell rings. Loud. Piercing. Doors fly open and the hallway turns into a sea of people. Backpacks knocking, nervous laughter, conversations that die the second I walk by.
I stand still for a few seconds at the classroom door, just watching. The hallway opens up without anyone saying a word. It's automatic. People change direction, look down, walk faster. Nobody bumps into me. Nobody holds eye contact for more than half a second.
"Man… finally. That math class was straight-up torture," Lucas complains, walking fast with his phone in his hand.
Pedro, right behind him, answers quietly: "For real… hey—" he drops his voice even lower "—he's right there."
Lucas glances at me for half a second. Swallows hard. Nudges Pedro and mutters: "Shut the fuck up, dude. Don't look."
"I'm not looking, man… let's just go."
They cross to the other side of the hallway — as far from me as possible.
Further ahead, two sophomore girls stop talking mid-sentence when I pass. One grabs the other's arm tight. They both turn their faces toward the lockers like they're suddenly obsessed with old stickers.
I open my locker. The metal's already dented from all the times I slammed it in anger. I throw the books in carelessly, grab my water bottle, sling the backpack over my shoulder.
"Tch… bunch of cowards. Always the same. Talk behind my back, shake when I'm in front of them."
I take a few steps toward the exit. The hallway somehow gets quieter. Faster footsteps. Lower voices. Everyone knows: if Ethan Nichols is in a bad mood, you disappear.
At the school gate… I hear it.
"HEY, KID!"
I stop mid-step and slowly turn around. On the other side of the gate, a man in his 50s is standing there. Worn leather jacket, messy gray hair, the look of someone who's taken a lot of hits and is still standing. Doesn't look like a teacher. Doesn't look like a cop. Looks like… someone who isn't afraid of trouble.
"Hm? What do you want, old man?" I say, a little louder than necessary — just to mark my space.
He takes a calm step toward me. No rush, no hesitation. That already annoys me.
"Old man… fair enough," he says with a half-smirk. Stops at a safe distance, hands in his pockets. "You're Ethan Nichols, right?"
"Who's asking?"
He looks straight at me. Doesn't blink.
"My name is Alaric Saltzman. You can call me Ric. I deal with… unusual situations. Situations like yours."
I give him a crooked smirk, the kind that doesn't reach my eyes.
"Situations like mine?" I repeat, mocking him. "What are you, from juvie? Child services? You don't know shit about me."
"I'm not from juvie, Ethan." He stays calm. Doesn't rise to the bait. "I know about the accident when you were six. I know about the strength you can't control. I know you hear things no one else can. I know your mom has tried everything and nothing really worked. And I know you're tired of carrying this alone."
My stomach twists. How the hell does this guy know all that? Did my mom tell him?
He keeps going, voice low but steady:
"I'm not here to judge you. I'm here because I can help. But I need to talk to you and your mom together. She already knows everything. Call her. Check."
I scowl, but the curiosity is already biting me. I pull out my phone without breaking eye contact.
Riiiing… riiiing…
"Son? What happened?" Her voice is tense right away.
"There's a guy here. Alaric Saltzman. Says he wants to talk to me and you. Who is this guy, Mom?"
A few seconds of silence. Then she speaks, calmer than I expected:
"Listen to him, Ethan. You might be surprised."
Tch… cryptic as always.
I hang up. Look at Ric again.
"Alright, old man. So you're really gonna explain all this shit to me?"
He doesn't smile. Just stares at me with that annoying calm.
"That's the plan, kid. If you'd rather keep being the school's nightmare and carry all this by yourself… that's your call. But let me tell you one thing: alone, the answers take a lot longer to come. And sometimes they come too late."
I stay quiet for a few seconds, thinking.
"Fine then, old man. Let's go home. But on the way you're telling me exactly who the hell you really are. No bullshit."
He nods, already turning toward a car parked across the street. A beat-up black SUV that still looks taken care of.
"Come on, kid. Let's go."
I let out a low "hmph", adjust the backpack on my shoulder and follow him.
While I walk behind him, only one thing crosses my mind:
If this guy is trying to deceive me in any way, it's not going to end well for him at all.