It is late spring. The wooded park contains an empty playground, swings blow in the breeze. The squeals of five boys playing tag echo off the empty slide. Grass parts under the pounding feet. Around and around the feet run, joyful shrieks reach up to the skies.
Knees hit the ground. A scream tears out. The first boy: anguish, pain. A light reaches from the sky. The four boys stop running; they stand still; they run away. One boy is left; one boy is crying. Thirteen is young to die.
Immense pain; Shards ripping at his inside; insides ripping out; head exploding; Light everywhere; Shards everywhere; No one is there.
The blades of grass flow rhythmically in the breeze as his knees lift off the ground. Above the ground, he is flying. His eyes are black, hands clenched. He cannot even hear himself scream. What has he done? Why is he being punished? Confusion echoes in the pain. It turns to despair. It turns to fear. It turns to hate. It is RAGE.
He feels a pulse. A pulse of pleasure is coursing through the rage. He begins to control through hate. He begins to have power through hatred. His feet no longer touch the blades, but he is running. He is flying. What kind of nightmare has he become? He finds the boys. He finds the traitors. He does nothing now. Now is not the time. He scolds them for falling for his act. He 'forgives' them.
A Pope forgives nothing.