"Have you ever felt deja vu? The intense feeling of familiarity for an event never performed, of remembering an occurrence vividly that you never experienced, the sense so powerfully stuck in your mind that it becomes a close friend?"

  "Yes. Why are you starting it like a novel, Otto?" Ana rolled her eyes, leaning back against the couch. "You are speaking to me, not writing a book."

  A pout filtered across my face. "Just—just let me have my fun, okay Ana? It's more enjoyable this way."

  "I just asked to hear about your childhood, not to hear a novel." Ana huffed, shaking her head with a smile. "...fine. You're so ridiculous."

  "And you love that!" I cheerfully say. "Anyways, deja vu was my existence for the first eight years of my life. I’d hear of names, events, and teachings long before I ever could have known them. When my parents taught me to speak, words came to me with ease. When taught rudimentary arithmetics, numbers spilled from my mouth with intuitive simplicity."

  "My parents lauded me as brilliant, a genius in our tiny village—this fact did not save me from working the back breaking labor of a serf, my young body forced to work the fields from an age far to juvenile. Even so, our small village took pride in my intellect. It wasn’t like there was much to take pride in, anyways. The fruits of our labor were taken by our lord and the grain we toiled over was taxed and stolen. Any goods we made were subject to be taken by our lord, nothing truly ours to own."

  "There has always been a deep-seated distaste within me about this fact. It was just as intuitive as my skills with words and numbers, something ingrained into my very being. No one else in our village found our condition to be horrendous; no, I was the only one who felt disgust over it; it was things like this that made up the several strange idiosyncrasies about myself. I had knowledge I couldn’t have gained and opinions I have no reason to possess. My accent is adjusted differently than my family’s accent, yet I have never lived outside of our tiny, secluded village."

  "Deja vu, a term that I never could have learned, seemed to be the epitome of my existence. Yet, I would then soon learn that the term deja vu is terribly inadequate in describing my affliction."

  Ana shot me a curiously glance, her pretty eyes looking at me with worry. Did I mention she has pretty eyes? They are a nice blue. "So, is this when you were—"

  I quickly cut the blonde off. "Shh, Ana, spoilers! And, yes, we begin with the worst day of my childhood. At least you can only go up from the bottom."

  "Spoilers?" She shot me an incredulous look. "You really are strange, Otto."

  I moped. "Can I carry on with my tale or will you keep interrupting me?"

  "...fine, I will be quiet."

  "Thank you!" I keep telling her my life story.

  ***

  “Ma! Pa!” I called out to my parents, my colloquialisms long-since losing the terms mom and dad. I ran through the door of our dinky house, the singular room of the home dirty and ratty. “The taxman is here! I saw him when I was playing with Tommy and Billy.”

  My father, a taller man with a weary appearance, shot out of bed. His earned rest after a grueling day of work was interrupted by my message. He cast tired brown eyes on me. “Son, are ya sure that’s what ya saw? It isn’t funny to joke about these things, Otto.”

  “Mhm!” I quickly said, nodding my head rapidly. “He had the clothes the rich people wear—no holes and clean! There were two armored men with him, the kind that usually come here with the magistrates.”

  “...magistrates?” My father asked before shaking his head, driving the thought from his mind. My father moved to the door of our home, a frantic light to his eyes. “It’s night and they’re here now? We should have weeks! Otto, where’s your ma?”

  I swallowed saliva and gave my father wide eyes as he pushed out of the building. “I don’t know!” I called out to him as he exited. “I think she might’ve been talking to Joan down the road.”

  I didn’t get a response from my father, the older man in a mad rush to find my mother. I didn’t know why he was so worried—he never had seemed so different when the tax collector came. Pa just let them have the grain and they left without a fuss.

  What was so different this time that my father seemed so off? I couldn’t help but take a peek outside, pushing my head outside of the door to watch what was going on outside.

  Our beaten down village was barely visible in the fading sunlight. The thatching of the roofs hardly reflected any light to my eyes, the beige color of the wattle and daub walls faint. Dirt roads were empty, beaten down paths cleared for a great gathering.

  From a distance, I watched a group of our fellow villagers talking to the taxman. They were near the edge of the town, the herd having stopped right before the beginning of the farmland. Only men were in that group; the wives were huddled back and watching from a distance. I listened in on what they were saying.

  “Sir, we don’t have any grain. If you’d just give us a couple more weeks, we could harvest the crops, Sir.” A stocky, blond man said from next to my father. That was Alan, Joan’s wife. He was nice. “Usually we ‘ave until the first of—”

  The taxman raised his hand to silence Alan, the long red sleeves of the rich noble falling back to reveal blubbery skin. “I understand that you typically have until the first of Mistum. However, his lordship, Lord Gregorious, has decreed that taxes are to be collected today. Are you saying that none of you have fulfilled your obligation to your lord?”

  “No, Sir.” My father quickly said, shaking his head furiously. “We have certainly labored. We just need a couple more weeks, you can even see the grain in the fields just o’er there—”

  “And is that grain ready to be given to Lord Gregorious?” The taxman demanded, eyes tightly held onto my father.

  None of the peasant men spoke, all knowing the answer to the question. No, there was no grain in the silos. The harvest was still a handful of weeks away, after all.

  “I see.” The tax collector calmly said, eyes wandering over the group in front of him. “So you are unable to pay your tallage, then? This is unacceptable.”

  Another man spoke up, this one having oak brown hair. He was my uncle Joseph. “We just need some more time, Sir. Please. We were given no notice that the time had been changed! You can’t be expecting us to—”

  “Do not talk back to me, villein.” The wealthy man hissed, dark eyes glaring sharply. “Your lord has demanded the tax to be paid now. The tax will be paid now. There is no arguing this, so unless you have your tallages, I will be forced to find other goods to claim.”

  The silence was painful, and I couldn’t help but feel angry. This man didn’t get to talk to my pa like that! He didn’t get to talk to my uncle and friends like they were animals, he couldn’t! I wanted to march up and yell at the blubbery jerk, but my legs refused to move.

  I was left standing with my head peeked out the door of our home, my body left inside the house. Only the flickering torchlight allowed for me to see what was happening…and all I saw was the taxman staring at me. My stomach sunk at the look.

  The tax collector broke the silence. “Very well, I see that you do not have your tallages. Let it be known, however, that you have a generous lord—Lord Gregorious has decided that if you could not pay your taxes today, he will move the date to two weeks after the first of Mistum.”

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  There was an audible breath of relief by the villagers, but dread still sat heavy in my gut. He was still looking at me, and it was making me feel weird. Creeped out and worried, I think.

  “Yes,” the taxman continued, not allowing for the serfs to get their balance and breathe for a moment, “Lord Gregorious is generous, but he will still be collecting on this debt. Lord Gregorious desires to have the so-called genius boy serve in the lord’s villa.”

  I sucked in air and took a step back, the edge of the door hitting the side of my head. I winced, staring forward dizzily. Our lord wanted me? But I don’t want to leave Ma and Pa! Even so, my mouth refused to open as I kept watching through the tiny crack.

  My mother let out a loud sob and moved through the group of women, managing to dodge all the hands that tried to pull her back as she moved. “Anna!” One of the women yelled out desperately, trying to stop my mother from doing something foolish.

  Ma fell to the ground next to my father and begged the taxman. “Please! You can’t, he’s just a boy! You can’t take him, please.” My mother pleaded, sobs racking her throat.

  “Silence.” The taxman ordered, an awkward look on his face. The pudgy man closed his eyes, inhaled, exhaled, and then opened his eyes again. “The lord has ordered for the child to serve him directly. If I take pity on you today, he will have his men march here to take the child regardless.”

  “But—but…” My mom blubbered out, tears cascading down her face in a perpetual rain. She looked up at my father. “John, they—” She cut herself off, sniffling again. My father remained silent, looking forward without budging.

  Why did the lord want me so badly? I’m…not blessed by a spirit or anything, I’m just me. Why is he doing this? I don’t understand, not at all—it doesn’t make sense! Why is learning things fast so important?

  “But—but why?” My mother ululated, pained cries still leaving her mouth. The taxman looked incredibly uncomfortable. “Why does he want my boy, my son? All…all the rumors about him being smart, they are made up! They’re fake!” She looks up at my father with pleading eyes. “Right, John? Right?!”

  My father nodded his head almost frantically, the statuelike motionlessness vanishing in a flash. “Yes! They were lies we made. Lies! He ain’t smarter than the’ normal kids, we lied!”

  The other villagers nodded along with my parents, giving words of agreement. They affirmed that I was stupid, and I didn’t like that. Why am I being called dumb? I’m not! I’m smart. The taxman would still take me if I was dumb ‘cause the lord ordered him to, so I didn’t understand why they were lying.

  The tax collector’s eyes roamed over the crowd. He raised a single eyebrow and spoke, his action silencing the crowd. “Really, is that so? Then have the boy come out here.” He looked directly at me from where I was peeking through the door. “Come out, child. I can still see you.”

  I swallowed saliva, my tummy feeling heavy. With legs like lead, I shoved through the door of my home and exited the house. It’d probably be bad for Ma and Pa if I didn’t listen to the man, so I made a robotic walk towards where the mass of people was.

  I meandered over, limbs still as sticks. I reached where my mother and father were, and my mother tried to grasp me for a moment. I kept moving forward, obeying the order of the tax collector.

  “Good, child, you can obey orders better than most.” The man snidely said, casting a glance over the village. “Everyone here has claimed you to be unintelligent. Is this true, boy? Are you as bright as a rock?”

  I opened my mouth and then slowly closed it. My parents probably wouldn’t want me to answer that, right? I swallowed deeply and kept my mouth shut, refusing to respond.

  No answer managed to be the wrong answer.

  The collector hummed, giving me a careful look of consideration. “So you have a better grasp of what is going on here than a typical child would. Yet, you also seem to be unlearned—any person raised into noble birth would know that silence speaks words.”

  “It does?” I couldn’t help but blurt, a fact for which I cursed myself for only moments after. Well…curiosity killed the cat. “Is it because of microexpressions and how silence can relate to social queues?”

  “Microexpressions…social queues…” The rich man repeated my words, an interested look on his face. “And how would you know such words? Regardless, you are correct. Your silence gave away a greater depth of social understanding than most children could have.” He tapped his chin, watching me curiously. “What is five plus ten?”

  “Fifteen?” I offer, confused by why he was asking such a simple question.

  “What about thirty-eight plus seventeen?”

  I hummed, counting in my mind. “Fifty-five?”

  “And five times seven?”

  “Thirty-five.” I answer immediately. Wasn’t he supposed to be testing my intelligence? Why is he asking such basic math?

  “And what is nine cubed?” The taxman challenged, a highly interested look in his eyes.

  I paused, thinking it over. Nine squared was eighty-one. So nine times eighty-one is… “Seven hundred and twenty-nine?” I offered somewhat weakly. I was confident that I was right, but big numbers are scary.

  “Seven hundred and twenty-nine is correct, yes.” He said, an odd gleam to his eyes. I didn’t like that look very much. “And they claim you to be unintelligent? Pah! I’ve never met a child your age who could do exponents. Come along, boy, the lord wishes to see you. Move, move!”

  “No!” My mother shouted, hand grasping my wrist. Gasps came from the very silent villagers at my mother’s willingness to talk back to a noble. “Don’t take him, please! You can’t!”

  Behind me, my father remained silent. A motion from him had my mother let go of my arm, soft sobs leaving her mouth. I stayed still, unsure what to do.

  The taxman rolled his eyes. “Don’t be so overdramatic, woman. This child will have a life far beyond what he could ever possibly have working the fields; do you wish for your son to stay here his entire life, plowing the earth and laboring under the harsh sun? Or would you prefer for him to be educated? For him to live in a way only nobles get to?”

  I get to live like nobles because I can do simple math? That seems stupid. “What about my parents?” I asked aloud. “Will they get to go with me?”

  “No.” The taxman scoffed as he looked at me with disappointment. “Clearly, you are a boy blessed by the spirits. You are beyond this…squalor. Your parents, however, are simply ordinary; those beneath you needn't be thought of.”

  I opened my mouth and then closed it, not sure what to say. That seemed…mean. Does being smart make me better than others? I don’t think so. I still worked the same and played the same as the other boys even though I could do numbers and they couldn’t.

  A hand was placed on my shoulder and gently spun me around. I looked up to see my father looking down at me with watery eyes that he clearly was trying to hide. He knelt down and pressed his lips to my forehead. “I love you, Otto. Do great things, we will be listening.”

  My mother let out a few last sniffles before moving to kiss my cheek. They had both given up on being allowed to keep me. “Keep yourself safe, honey. Be—be a good boy and find a wife one day. Find us…sh—show us our grandbabies when you're older. We love you, baby; never forget it.”

  No muscle in my body moved as I stood there, not sure what to say. I felt salty water drip down my cheek, though. I felt weak, unsure as to how I could respond. I’d never see them again. I wouldn’t be allowed to. “I love you, Ma and Pa. I’ll—I will find you when I’m older!” I swore, sniffling and forcing back tears. “I’ll be the best!”

  My father gently brushed the wetness from my cheek and lightly ruffled my hair. “You will be, Son. Remember that men never cry—never show weakness, my Otto. We love you.” He said this as tears gently dripped down his cheeks, but Pa tried to angle me so I couldn’t see that.

  “Child, come here and let us leave.” The taxman ordered, but his voice wasn’t particularly harsh. With a sniffle, I forced my body to turn away from my parents. I marched up to the taxman and stood beside him. It took all of my effort to stop myself from sobbing.

  The tax collector started walking away whilst I followed hesitantly. Two men in armor soon flanked each side of us, not a noise spilling from their mouths. I refused to turn my head backwards, unwilling to let myself be even more sad.

  “Have you ever ridden a horse, boy?” The tax collector asked me curiously as we walked, not looking towards me at all. That annoyed me.

  “Otto.” Is all I said in response, a frown heavy on my lips.

  “Hm?” The tax collector curiously asked, eyes looking down at me. “Otto?”

  I sniffled and huffed. “My name is Otto, not boy. You could at least call me by my name…” I trailed off, suddenly worried that I overstepped. The older man didn’t negatively react as we walked along the dirt path, though.

  “Otto it is, then.” The man nodded his head diplomatically. “And you can call me Mister Anders, then. So, Otto, have you ever ridden a horse?”

  “No, Mister Anders.”

  Mister Anders clicked his tongue. “I should have expected that response. Well, Otto, we will be riding a carriage back to the lord’s villa. During our ride, you may ask me any questions that you have. Once we arrive at the villa, you will no longer ask any questions. Understood?”

  That seemed very weird. I could only ask questions during the ride? Why? That’s dumb, but… “Okay, Sir. I understand.”

  “Excellent—ah!” Mister Anders exclaimed as a fancy-looking cart with horses in front of it came into view. It was black with gold lining, the tiny windows on it blocked by velvet curtains. It looked much richer than anything I’d ever seen before. “That is the carriage we will be riding on. Go along now.”

  I gave Mister Anders a glance, almost as if to ask if that was really what we were going to be taking. It was so—so wealthy! The cost of it must’ve been worth more than however much my parents earned in their entire lives.

  My feet remained planted in the dirt, eyes bogged open as I looked at the fancy vehicle. What sort of life am I going to be living now?

  “Move, Otto.” Mister Anders nearly hissed, already walking towards the door of the carriage. I quickly scrambled to get in the entrance; it was really, really nice.

  Distractingly nice.