Protagonitis

[WP] "Sudden onset of spiky colorful hair can only mean one thing. Your child has... protagonitis. You have mere days to live. I am sorry." "Uh, did you mean THEY have mere days to live?" "No."

* * *

I promised John and Sally Winston that I'd one day tell the story to their son, John Junior. But this is more than a promise to them, it's an obligation towards myself and poor John. So that he would know that for inexplicable reasons in this strange, confusing world that we lived in, all that had happened to him to change his life in less than a week was part of an order.

I still remember when it started. 12 years ago. When John Junior was eight. He was an only child, and whether it was by choice or fate, I would never know. It was just one of those questions a male neighbor like me didn't ask, no matter how close I'd gotten to them.

We'd been neighbors for 14 years at the time. I was John's neighbor before he married Sally, and I was John Junior's godfather too. I'd watched him growing up, I had been his babysitter for a while, and he was even friends with my sons Finn and Adam. I know, I know, I digress, but this is all so you know the nature of the relationship I had with them, and what my reaction would have been during the onset of this development.

Twleve years ago, I awoke to shouts of shock coming from the Winstons. I dashed over there as quickly as I could, barely putting on a robe and having nothing underneath it but my underwear. I didn't know what caused the shout, but seeing as there was no smoke emanating from the house, my fears were assuaged -at least a little.

But as I ran upstairs and saw John and Sally inspecting John Junior, I suspected something was wrong with him. His hair, which was matted black normally, was now spiky and blue. No, it was actually blue with a purple tint, and very spiky. Much like some of the characters in the 'animes' my son's loved watching.

I stared at his hair colour for a long time. It didn't look dyed, no, an eight year old wouldn't have had the coordination to do such a clean job. His hair was blue from its very roots. He wouldn't have had the money to do so either, so that was out of the cards.

"Wh-what is this?" Sally asked.

The question was rhetorical, because the answer was clear. John Junior's hair had gone from matted black to spiky blue in a night.

It was imperative that they took him to a hospital. Not that it was the right place to go, as there wasn't exactly a place to go in this situation, but for want of a better option. I watched them put him in the backseat and drive off, John's face a look of confusion, and Sally's one of pure fear.

*****

"Protagonitis."

I blinked.

John and Sally had come back,and while Junior was out in the yard playing catch with my sons and talking about his new hair, I was getting the details of what happened at the doctor's office.

Sally was weeping profusely, signs that he wasn't just suffering a cold. My wife Aimee was dead. An aneurysm, five years ago. If she had been here, she might have known how to calm Aimee down.

"Protagonitis. It's a rare condition. One in 500,000 kids are born with it."

I grimaced. "How bad?"

"For him? Well, physiologically, it has no effect. Psychologically, it will be damning. But we're not telling him that."

"Why?"

"The only one symptom of protagonitis is a sudden onset of colourful spiky hair. In fact, it can't rely be called a disease. It's more like a syndrome or condition. That's because the sudden onset of spiky hair is a symptom that always precedes one occurrence: the death of the sufferer's parents."

I sat up. "What?"

"Protagonitis. It's related to what happens to protagonists in most movies. The death of their parents shapes their lives in one way or the other."

"That's...That's crazy. How is that even possible? It just kills the parents like that?"

Sally was sobbing now, and John reached around to hold her tight. There were tears in his eyes. "It's all about fate. There are more than a thousand ways to die, and any of those ways will shape the life of our son. That's what this all is!"

"How many years?"

Sally's sobs became louder, and I had to reach out and rub her shoulder.

"Hours or Days. It has never ever reached a week. Hours or Days after the color change, the lparents die. No matter how young or old the child is when his hair colour changes."

It was clear that they had only a few days to spend with their child, and as much as that day was spent consoling them both and drinking, we knew we had to give Junior his best memories yet.

Cinemas, Amusement Parks, Sleepovers.

It was the time of his life.

*****

John and Sally a death came four days later. Nobody ever prays for a friend to die, but at this point all we prayed for was natural causes.

He'd slept over at my place. The couple had gone out for dinner. As much as this was about Johnny, they also had to make out time for themselves too.

I overslept my alarm, and when I woke up by 9:00 AM and realized that John and Sally hadn't come to get their child, I knew that it had happened.

I left John with the kids, asleep, and walked over to their house. Called them out, rang the bell severally without a response, and then opened the door. The lock had been tampered with.

My heart raced as I kicked down the door and ran upstairs. I didn't hear the front door open, I didn't hear John race up the stairs, laughing and calling out his parents name.

But I heard his scream as he came up to where I was and stared into the open doorway of his parents bedroom. At the blood and gore everywhere, and the sight of his father's back riddled with stab wounds as he protected his mother who was also dead.

*****

Nowadays, I barely get to see John Junior anymore. He's 20; graduated from high school two years ago. He was the valedictorian, and I was proud of him. We both cried a little. John and Sally would have been proud.

He says he's going to college in the next town. He's supposed to be in his sophomore year. But I know that's a lie. There's a new vigilante on the streets these days. Beating up gang members to pull, cleaning up the streets and painting them red with the blood of the bad guys.

The city loves him.

The Police are on the hunt for him.

I know him.

He still stays at the house across mine, coming back ever so often with a cut on one cheek or a broken rib. I wonder how many times he 'falls down the stairs' to cause those injuries.

I promised John and Sally I'd tell him the truth, and now I have.

*****

Second Time's the Charm? My second attempt on a prompt.

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