My transformation took its time: it was not until a month later, that
I knew the notion of power. In that solitary month, my presence was a
thorn in my mother's side. She despised me. I took to the cramped
prison of my room. My bed was far too big to encompass my body; I had
the illusion of being an ant, drowning in a puddle of sheets. My floor
was incredibly neat, for a boy of my age: the toys my mother brought
for me were stacked against the wall: their bead eyes mocked me; this
was a time when my mother loved me.
*************************
My anger was born in a dark place of my heart. It was a wave of
crimson that overtook me, and when it receded, I was a Contractor. I
could feel it: a primal urge inside of me. It grew inside me, and once it matured I harvested it to create death. My experiments were satisfactory; within a few days I had learnt the power of my ability; I did not learn the consequences.
My first victim was dead to begin with; it was a doll. I had found her among the wreckage of the attic. She was a pretty thing; blonde, curly hair, that fell down to a light blue frock; glassy orbs of sky-blue stared at me, plastic arm and feet. My eyes were perfectly aligned for once-a glorious red- as I pressed on her chest. My fingerprints appeared; reminding me, that short, pudgy Maki could cause all this damage. All I had to do now was activate it. I wiped my nose- an action that was reflex, because of my tears-and the doll was torn apart. I smiled.
We were leaning of basic fractions that fateful year. I myself, like the diagram on my teacher's board, was a fraction. I was split into quarters; I was a thorn to my mother, a Christmas boy to my father, the shy boy at school, and the killer who murdered the doll. I had to make a choice; and I did.
In all fairness, the notion of murder did not come immediately to me. It was only after I had practiced on various dolls. But one sunny day, my victim being a soft, plush bear given to me by mother, the idea came to me. I had made my choice, so it was only natural that should be the path I take. I lay on my bed, which no longer was too big, and pondered my dilemma; who to kill? While other nine-year old boys thought about trivial things, my thoughts gravitated to murder. But who to kill? Teachers, classmates, neighbors drifted like comets through my mind, until they stopped and fell when I thought of my mother. Of course.
