His cousin's parents had died, and he lived with Mannimarco and his parents now. They'd gotten along well enough to satisfy Mannimarco's parents, who'd been worried about his lack of socialization. Mannimarco was a quiet boy, sullen. He could sit wordless and alone for hours, even days; he spurned the affection of his parents and told them often never to bother him. When he was upset, he never ran to his parents for comfort. His parents had never encouraged that kind of thing, and he never sought it out himself. The three of them lived alone in one house, drifting through a sea of servants who always whispered at them and averted their gaze.
He was barely ten, his cousin several years younger. They were outside. It was a mild day, and the nursemaid was chatting with one of the gardeners. The boys wandered off, and were left to their own devices. The younger boy became fussy after a while, having not eaten since breakfast, and Mannimarco lacked patience for his emotional outbursts. He ignored his cousin at first, attempting to read by himself. Then, as the younger boy began to cry, he backhanded him across the face. The cousin recoiled, and then struck him back. Mannimarco leaped at him, and they fought. The younger one was weaker and smaller, and though it hadn't been his intention, Mannimarco soon found his hands wrapped around his cousin's neck.
He was on top of his chest, squeezing the boy's throat shut-halfheartedly at first. His cousin's eyes were wide, and his face was a deep shade of red. How long had he been choking him? Mannimarco watched him, could do nothing else as he realized that he was killing the boy. He was taking a life. The boy would be still soon, just like the dead bird he'd found last week, the one he'd picked up and placed in his desk drawer, only to have it taken away by his distraught nursemaid. Now, it would be him who made someone be still, he who would make someone's body grow cold and quiet. Fascinated and nauseated, Mannimarco tightened his grip and stared.
His cousin kicked, and he made little gasps and coughs. Tears fell from his eyes, rolling down his darkening cheeks, and his little hands clutched at Mannimarco's wrists. He watched his big cousin watch him, until the light went from his eyes and he stopped moving. His face was blue, and soon he was dead. There were bruises on his neck by the time one of the servants found them. Mannimarco didn't move from that spot, didn't blink when the nursemaid shrieked and cried. He felt dizzy, he felt terrified. He felt so powerful. When he saw his mother's face, the face she made when she refused to cry (which was her expression most of the time), he held his tongue and didn't dare smile. But oh, his stomach was filled with butterflies; it was a dark and fulsome feeling, but one that he adored.
After that, no one in Mannimarco's ancestral home dared speak his name-neither servant nor relative. They wouldn't touch him anymore. They didn't so much as look at him. His mother and father left him in his room for two nights and two days. On the third night a servant stood in the doorway, avoiding his gaze, and bid him pack his things so that he could go somewhere far away. He was a bright boy, and his parents were well off. Mannimarco was the only one in the house who could stand to see a life ended. This disgusted him, and he divorced himself from them in his heart that very moment.