Prologue: Childhood

I was always smart as a kid, but it had always been something I took for granted. Much like how many kids take for granted their ability to wake up each day and know they will have something to eat and a house to play and sleep within. My intelligence was something I had no basis for as a child, so I simply thought it was how every child was. My intelligence arrived much earlier than any major physical changes. By the time I was only sixteen months old I could hold entire conversations with my parents who were both still around at that time. By the age of three I had begun learning English at the behest of both of my parents. They had told me time and time again that early childhood was the best time to learn languages. What only occurred to me much later, was how surprising it was that my parents were fluent in every language I was taught.

At the age of five I was perfectly fluent in three languages and could hold basic conversations in three others. It was at this time my parents left me. They did not leave me completely to my own devices, however. They left stacks of books I was to not only just read, but learn. Learning is very different from reading. Anyone can simply pick up a book and begin to read it. A college student could pick up a calculus book and read it from cover to cover, but still never truly learn anything about calculus and it’s actual uses. Learning entails being able to use the knowledge within the books in useful situations or even simply outside of their simplistically shown nature within each book.

Computer science appeared to be the theme of the books left for me during this period of time. I was still naïve and had yet to even leave my own house at this time, so to me my parents were my world. I could never even imagine disobeying them so I trudged on through the stacks of books containing knowledge on coding languages and mathematics. Yes, mathematics ended up being directly related and useful to coding in many different languages, which many fail to understand when they first begin delving into computer science. I became proficient. I could code complex programs in minutes without making a single error. At this point two years had passed.

You may be wondering how a five year old stayed alive in a house all alone without any money or form of transportation. It is a very good aspect of this story to question and also a very easy one to answer. My parents had set up a sort of delivery method with a coworker. Every Tuesday the doorbell would ring and a package of assorted vegetables, canned goods, and other food would be waiting for me in a box outside. This was how I learned my first, what I like to call “Real world skill”, cooking. Cooking was something I did out of necessity. I never enjoyed cooking and would just make simplistic meals out of the ingredients brought to me. Although in the beginning I failed to even do that much and would end up just eating the ingredients raw.

It was at this point my parents returned once again. I was so excited. Two years without parents can take quite a toll on a young kid’s psyche and I was not an exception. I may have actually faired much worse, since within the entire two years of their absence, I had absolutely no contact with the outside world. My appearance was horrifying to say the least. I was as pale as a ghost back then and my hair was always a brown, disheveled mess resting atop my head. I had not stopped learning languages and became fluent in the six I had begun learning, but lack of human contact had made me anti-social. Even if I could speak those languages, I lacked the experience many kids my age had already begun to have involving interpersonal communication. My parents had brought with them some pleasant news though. We were moving.

I had become sick of the house I was staying in. Seeing the same scenery for seven years can do that to anyone. The only issue I faced was that I had no concept of, well anything other than the languages I could speak and the computer science skills I had become so fluent with. I was told we were going to America. I had no idea what an America was, but I still remained hopeful for an exciting change of scenery…until I had my first encounter with an airplane.

The noise alone made me fear for my life, but the fact we were going into one sent me into a panic attack. My parents gave me something to drink telling me it would calm me down. The next moment I was waking up in the airplane right when it was landing. That was the first time I was ever drugged by my parents and the only time I remember it happening.

The first seven years of my life was a rather lonely one and one I tend to avoid reflecting on too often. I still have no idea where the actual location of my first house was and I have very little motivation to ask. My life truly began when I arrived in the United States. We moved into a house in Westchester, New York. I call it a house, but it was much more similar to a mansion. Standing three stories tall, it was brick and mortar monument to my family’s wealth. We also owned a large portion of the surrounding woods. These woods offered secrecy and security, although I did not understand that back then. This was when my training began. My parents hired a retired military drill sergeant and disappeared once again. I was given the full treatment. What I suffered through in the three years we stayed together could only be described as hell, but I was just happy to have some human companionship.

During my three years of getting drilled by the sergeant, not sexually of course, I learned some of my most useful skills. Using firearms, primarily sniper rifles, hand-to-hand combat, and perhaps most importantly, I learned discipline. Although his name escapes me, or perhaps I never did learn it to begin with, I owe that man my thanks and a couple good punches. Those three years were also the time I learned about the world around me. Politics, economics, world history, and a couple of the sciences were just a few of the subjects I chose to study up on in the free time I managed to get from that old bastard.

My tenth birthday was when my parents came home once again. My father came home with a missing eye. It should have frightened me, seeing my father like that. I just didn’t care. My mother was not in great shape either. Her ring finger and pinky were both missing from her left hand and her left leg was in a cast. Once again I felt nothing. I’m not sure why, but that moment was when I realized I wasn’t quite normal. The signs had been so obvious beforehand. My ridiculous intelligence, my rapidly increasing physique, and now my lack of sympathy and empathy. I must have just lacked the necessary precursor to fully understanding my own uniqueness. I was still unsure about I was becoming, but I had become very aware my parents were conditioning me for something.

I never asked what happened to them. They simply came in and began talking. My parents’ jobs were startling yet almost expected in some ways. My father was, or rather is, a human trafficker who sells to a variety of clients. My mother works for the Italian mafia although she did not say the specific tasks she had to do. After explaining this to me they then invited me to begin helping them out on smaller jobs. This was a promise of outside contact and adventure. How could I refuse? They also added in my possible enrollment within a local prep school which only furthered my acceptance. This is where I currently stand. Ironically laying atop a roof opposite a warehouse in southern Texas. The scope of my sniper rifle aimed straight at the head of one of the Mexican cartel’s runners. My father’s hand now has two fingers scratching his right ear lobe, that’s the signal. I take the shot.