When the World Turned Against Me

"Kind, where are you, my dear?" Mina's voice trembled as she wandered through the dimly lit house. She was playing hide and seek with her seven-year-old grandson, Kind. He had run off giggling, promising that she would never find him. And she had believed him. Because even if she searched every corner of the house, Kind always found the best hiding spots.

Tonight, he had chosen the attic.

He huddled behind the old dining table, pressing his small frame against the cold wood. He covered his mouth, stifling his laughter. He could hear his grandmother's soft footsteps creaking on the wooden floor below.

"Grandma, you can never find me," he thought, pride swelling in his chest. He was the champion of hide and seek.

Mina paused in the hallway, one hand pressed against the wall for support. A sharp cough escaped her lips, followed by another. Her chest burned. She closed her eyes, waiting for the pain to subside. The doctor had warned her. Bed rest, he had said. No strenuous activities. But how could she say no to those hopeful, pleading eyes?

No one could refuse Kind.

She had raised him since he was two. More than a grandmother, she was his everything.

Another violent cough wracked her frail body. She barely had time to cover her mouth before she felt something warm on her palm. Her heart clenched when she saw it.

Blood.

The doctor's words echoed in her head: "If you start coughing up blood, it means time is running out."

The walls blurred. Her vision swam. She reached out for something—anything—to hold onto, but before she could steady herself, the world tilted.

And then—darkness.

An hour later, Kind's mother's wails echoed through the house.

"Mother!"

Kind jumped at the sound. He had fallen asleep behind the dining table, waiting for his grandmother to find him. He rubbed his sleepy eyes and hurried downstairs.

The moment he stepped into the living room, his tiny heart pounded. His grandmother lay on the ground. His parents sat beside her, his mother sobbing uncontrollably. His father's face was blank, but his eyes were red.

"Mother, why are you crying?" Kind's voice was small, uncertain. "Why is Grandma sleeping on the ground?"

His mother clutched him, but no words came out.

"Your grandmother has passed away," his father said.

Something cracked inside Kind. He looked at his grandmother, waiting for her to wake up, waiting for her to tell him it was all a joke. But she didn't move.

She didn't wake up.

That night, he cried until the sun came up.

The funeral was quiet. Somber. People whispered behind cupped hands.

"Did you hear? This whole tragedy happened because of that child."

"That little maestro of ill luck."

Kind didn't understand. He stood near his mother, his small fingers curled into fists.

"Mom, what is bad luck?" he asked.

His mother hesitated. "Bad luck is when someone's presence brings misfortune."

Misfortune.

Kind's stomach twisted.

[Am I the reason Grandma died?]

The thought lodged itself in his mind, a seed of doubt that grew into something monstrous.

From that day on, Kind believed he was a deity of bad luck, destined to bring misery to everyone around him.

Ten years passed.

The once-small boy had grown into a brilliant student. A top scorer at Heaven Secondary School. But despite his achievements, the belief that he was cursed never faded. If anything, it only strengthened.

He isolated himself. He buried his head in books. His only friends were the stories he read.

"Kind!" his teacher snapped, pulling him out of his thoughts.

He blinked, realizing he had been staring out the window.

"Yes, sir," he said, immediately standing up.

"Why are you distracted?"

"I'm sorry, sir. It won't happen again."

His teacher sighed. "Take your seat."

The bell rang soon after.

As Kind packed his books, Pearl approached him.

"Want to come to the café with us?" she asked, hopeful. "We're going to study."

He hesitated. He wanted to go. He really did. But his mother had made it clear: no unnecessary outings.

"Sorry. I have to be home."

Pearl's face fell. He turned away before he could change his mind.

Kind reached home to find his mother sitting with a magazine in hand.

"Kind, come here," she said without looking up.

He walked over. "Yes, Mom?"

"We're moving to Damak next week."

Kind stiffened.

"What about my school?"

His mother finally looked at him. "I'll talk to the principal about your transfer certificate."

"That's not what I meant!" Frustration clawed at his throat. "My studies, my friends—how am I supposed to adjust to a new place just like that?"

"Stop being dramatic," she snapped. "We have problems here. Your friends won't take care of you if we leave you alone."

His hands trembled. He wanted to argue, but he knew it was pointless. His mother never listened.

She never cared.

Kind stormed into his room, slamming the door behind him. He grabbed his favorite novel and tried to lose himself in its pages. But the words blurred.

His mind kept replaying an old memory.

He was nine. He had begged his mother for a book. She had refused, saying they had no money for unnecessary purchases.

The next day, she bought his sister an expensive playhouse.

That day, something inside him cracked. It never healed.

The next morning, he stared at his reflection in the mirror.

[Today is the last day I'll wear this uniform.]

He sighed, grabbed his bag, and walked out.

At school, the teacher announced his departure. The class erupted in whispers. His friends looked betrayed.

"Why didn't you tell us?" Pearl whispered, tears brimming in her eyes.

"I didn't want to make you sad on the last day," he admitted.

Sidharta, his best friend, shook his head. "You should've at least told me."

"If I had, I wouldn't have been able to enjoy this final day with you all."

Tears spilled down his cheeks.

Sidharta pulled him into a tight hug. "Don't you dare forget us."

As school ended, his classmates signed his shirt, leaving messages and drawings. Even the principal took a photo with him.

As he stepped out of the school gates, his friends waved.

"Bye, Kind!"

He smiled. But deep inside, a wish echoed in his heart.

[In my next life, I hope I'm lucky. I hope my parents love me.]

To be continued.