those two stupid young lovers and kill them, kill them—
But it would not. And it would do none of those other things, those things it longed to do, ripping flesh, the world in red and the cracking sound of breaking bones and torn limbs filling its ears . . .
At least not yet. There would be time for all these things, if it only continued to be, as that silly fag art teacher had kept saying to himself—
Careful.
For even as the fires raged deep inside, the fires that wanted to lash out, to burn and rape and tear limb from socket, even as the fires burned as hot as the core of the sun, it continued to look at the world through eyes as cool as the dead emptiness of space between stars. Because, a long time ago, it had learned patience, and cunning—had learned to be . . .
Careful.
There had been close calls, times when a flash of what it knew and could perform had leaked out, mostly before it was ready to use these things, but at those times it had been lucky, and the damage had been minimal and mended. There was a memory of the day it had discovered not only its powers and urges, but the need for temperance, and that had been the luckiest day of all. It could not have been more than a year old, but it remembered the day as if it had been its birthing day itself. In many ways it had been. The day was sunny and blue, early June by the weather, with summer still held at bay by high spring. The world smelled like flowers. There were clouds overhead, so high they seemed part of another world. It was lying in its stroller, in a park somewhere, and it was looking up at those clouds when suddenly it realized what they looked like. They looked like the light it saw when it touched its mother or anyone else. And it knew what it wanted to do. Those clouds were beautiful—high and as fluffy as cotton balls. But it wanted to make them turn black, shred them to bits, rip them with its teeth. And it knew it could do that to the light it saw when it touched its mother, could rend that light, twist and deform it. A burst of insight went through it; its entire being filled with a fierce dark knowledge and it knew who it was. And what it could do. It looked at the low walls that imprisoned it, the padded dark blue vinyl of the stroller where it lay, with the sun bonnet folded back, and it wanted to mash that carriage to shreds of plastic and stuffing. It wanted to make the flowers it smelled wither and die, make them reek instantly like mold and rotting earth, make the day turn sour, fill it with burning rain and thunderheads, the wind howling, make the tops of fresh green trees whip one against another, ripping each other to pulpy bits. It wanted to do all these things.
It felt a vast, exhilarating power tearing through its veins, and suddenly, with an uncontrollable urge, it wanted to do all these things now. It reached its hands up, and willed the day to turn black. Nothing happened. Rage consumed it; it began to beat its fists wildly on the sides of the stroller, tried to rip the plastic from its frame with its tiny hands, crying and crying.
"What is it?" a face said above it. The mother. The face was huge, the mouth downturned in a silly pout filled with concern, the eyes filled with both caring and something else. Fear? Not quite, but something like it.
Suddenly, looking up at that face, it longed to rip those huge, caring cow eyes out, tear the flesh from the mouth
A look of alarm crossed the mother's face. It had gone too far, it knew; and now it learned its first lesson. It pulled back until there was only concern on the mother's face, and that thing below fear, and it turned its cries into whimpers and then managed, with all of its raging will, to put a small smile on its face.
"There, there, that's better," the mother said. It felt the mother's hands upon it, huge hateful things, and it saw the soft strong light that was in the mother and wanted to rend that light with its hands, but it cooed and laughed, and the mother
But it would not. And it would do none of those other things, those things it longed to do, ripping flesh, the world in red and the cracking sound of breaking bones and torn limbs filling its ears . . .
At least not yet. There would be time for all these things, if it only continued to be, as that silly fag art teacher had kept saying to himself—
Careful.
For even as the fires raged deep inside, the fires that wanted to lash out, to burn and rape and tear limb from socket, even as the fires burned as hot as the core of the sun, it continued to look at the world through eyes as cool as the dead emptiness of space between stars. Because, a long time ago, it had learned patience, and cunning—had learned to be . . .
Careful.
There had been close calls, times when a flash of what it knew and could perform had leaked out, mostly before it was ready to use these things, but at those times it had been lucky, and the damage had been minimal and mended. There was a memory of the day it had discovered not only its powers and urges, but the need for temperance, and that had been the luckiest day of all. It could not have been more than a year old, but it remembered the day as if it had been its birthing day itself. In many ways it had been. The day was sunny and blue, early June by the weather, with summer still held at bay by high spring. The world smelled like flowers. There were clouds overhead, so high they seemed part of another world. It was lying in its stroller, in a park somewhere, and it was looking up at those clouds when suddenly it realized what they looked like. They looked like the light it saw when it touched its mother or anyone else. And it knew what it wanted to do. Those clouds were beautiful—high and as fluffy as cotton balls. But it wanted to make them turn black, shred them to bits, rip them with its teeth. And it knew it could do that to the light it saw when it touched its mother, could rend that light, twist and deform it. A burst of insight went through it; its entire being filled with a fierce dark knowledge and it knew who it was. And what it could do. It looked at the low walls that imprisoned it, the padded dark blue vinyl of the stroller where it lay, with the sun bonnet folded back, and it wanted to mash that carriage to shreds of plastic and stuffing. It wanted to make the flowers it smelled wither and die, make them reek instantly like mold and rotting earth, make the day turn sour, fill it with burning rain and thunderheads, the wind howling, make the tops of fresh green trees whip one against another, ripping each other to pulpy bits. It wanted to do all these things.
It felt a vast, exhilarating power tearing through its veins, and suddenly, with an uncontrollable urge, it wanted to do all these things now. It reached its hands up, and willed the day to turn black. Nothing happened. Rage consumed it; it began to beat its fists wildly on the sides of the stroller, tried to rip the plastic from its frame with its tiny hands, crying and crying.
"What is it?" a face said above it. The mother. The face was huge, the mouth downturned in a silly pout filled with concern, the eyes filled with both caring and something else. Fear? Not quite, but something like it.
Suddenly, looking up at that face, it longed to rip those huge, caring cow eyes out, tear the flesh from the mouth
A look of alarm crossed the mother's face. It had gone too far, it knew; and now it learned its first lesson. It pulled back until there was only concern on the mother's face, and that thing below fear, and it turned its cries into whimpers and then managed, with all of its raging will, to put a small smile on its face.
"There, there, that's better," the mother said. It felt the mother's hands upon it, huge hateful things, and it saw the soft strong light that was in the mother and wanted to rend that light with its hands, but it cooed and laughed, and the mother
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