The others wondered why he was so cruel. But he knew.

He knew, and he wished he didn't. It was terrible, the way he felt when he was being cruel. When he hurt the others, when he hit the others, when he punished the others for things they could not control. When he punished them for love.

He knew, because he felt it, every day, as he lingered in his room. It came to him as he lay in bed, as he lay sick. It filled him, the only reason he kept on living.

He knew. It was power, sweet, sharp power. Power that brought saccharine pain through his veins. Power that controlled him, power that was him.

He knew the power. But he wished he didn't.