Eight Years in the Expression of Art
There are things--little things--that can make him happy, for a second or two, and then he's seen everything there is too see and discards them carelessly. Most of it's creation--very rarely does he pay attention to things that aren't--and most of the time he has much more fun in their making than marveling at them for the couple of seconds.
Some whisper that his hate for looking at the little creations come from his mother, who would gaze past them and say how wonderful and good job and all the caring things a mother is supposed to say, but he figures it out and stops showing them to her at four.
When he is five they get the news that his father is dead, from a bombing of the camp his troop was staying in, but the boy has never seen him once, and even envies how he died in such a glorious way.
People walk into the home and complement the little boy on the sculptures, but he just shakes his head.
All his works; the paintings; the sketches; and the sculptures, on and on and on he makes them, (although it's always been clay that's done it--when he's six he decides that's what he's going to use. He can be six to decide that, because he's got a talent that would surpass most adults.) because there's no limit to what he can make.
When he's seven he can't help feeling like there's something missing, that the finished sculptures aren't complete, that they aren't done yet, that there's something missing. He tries different things, makes deformed things and beautiful things and he just ends up trashing them all. He gets frustrated and stops for a month, but when his mother takes him to the hospital the doctor swears the only thing he's ever seen like it was withdrawal symptoms, and little boys don't take that kind of thing. He gives up and continues making them, forcing himself to be satisfied with the small clay creatures.
His great aunt comes to visit at age eight, and expresses her love for the sculptures. "They're so beautiful." The boy's IQ is much too high for the little baby talk most great aunts use.
He scowls. "I can't get them right." He suddenly gets angry, and shouts. "They won'twork!" Throwing it at the wall and storming upstairs. His mother says to please ignore him.
His mother hires a private tutor when he's nine, and he, too, loves the sculptures, strange and bizarre as they are. The boy shakes his head. "They aren't right."
At this point the boy knows the clay has gun powder in it, and sets a leg of a seven legged spider alight. It explodes before someone can smother the flame, and the blonde smirks.
"There. That's better."
At age ten the house burns down. His mother is killed and he is permanently blinded in his left eye. They say it's an accident, and don't even notice how he doesn't shed a tear.
The red headed boy across the street knows it wasn't, though, and is the only one who notices the smirk on the blonde's face when he is told his mother is dead.
At age eleven he escapes from the orphanage.
(Ever since, the reports of terrorist bombings have increased tenfold, and the news claims that it's just a phase due to the rising war. They never catch the culprit.)
At age eleven the little blonde boy is never seen again.