Silas always felt that he was different, in ways that he couldn't discern. There was something in how the classmates who walked the halls of his high school treated him - some sort of masked defensiveness. People avoided his eyes. Among a sea of similar faces, he was the only one who wasn't accepted. But at the same time, he wasn't entirely rejected either, so he was left to dangle on his own, on the edge of a precipice where people saw him about to lose his grip but didn't bother to help him. Instead they turned away, turned a blind eye to him.
He was ashamed to realize why, but deep inside himself he knew the reason. It was his bionic arm. Complications at birth had left him without his left arm, but his parents were good to him, and throughout his life he had always been provided with a fitted robotic alternative. It worked fine. It didn't limit his abilities at all, and he never pitied himself.
But there was the catch that, in society's eyes, was worse than the fact that Silas didn't have an arm. It was that he didn't have a clock on his wrist. He was the only one in his class, in his school, in his city, possibly in his country. And while the fact had never really bothered him, he disliked how people treated him because of it. He felt that all this talk of soulmates, all this talk of magical clocks and predetermined futures, was garbage. He wasn't going to let disapproving eyes and dwindling numbers tell him who he loved.
But there was the catch that, in society's eyes, was worse than the fact that Silas didn't have an arm. It was that he didn't have a clock on his wrist. He was the only one in his class, in his school, in his city, possibly in his country. And while the fact had never really bothered him, he disliked how people treated him because of it. He felt that all this talk of soulmates, all this talk of magical clocks and predetermined futures, was garbage. He wasn't going to let disapproving eyes and dwindling numbers tell him who he loved.
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