_{Some say you're trouble, boy Just because you like to destroy All the things that bring the idiots joy} Well, what's wrong with a little destruction?

The laughter ceases with a scream.

Reginald’s body freezes as the shriek wracks his body. His chest convulses; his stomach tightens. Around him the billowing winds of the storm continue to churn the fire, which roars before the grey-eyed prince as though it were a many-headed monster crying out for blood to wet its throat. The branch he had used to ignite the flame is long gone, the wand devoured by the blaze, and there is no way to call back the behemoth that has been unleashed.

It is dark like nightfall. The clouds thicken, the lightening arches menacingly in the sky. Reginald can feel a shift in the wind, a chill starting to color its voice, and the smell of rain is heavier than ever, yet not a drop has fallen from the heavens. The wind continues to howl, there is another scream, and something awakens in Reginald’s breast as he listens to it. It is a strange gem that does not fit within the boiling kiln of his soul, the ravenous hunger of his curiosity and dominion; it is an item apart, and its awakening causes the terror in his bones to explode furiously. His need for his mother is overwhelming. He takes a step backward.

The gem in his heart breaks as soon as it is awakened. It shatters completely as the flames roar on, and Reginald can feel the shards of it piercing him from the inside. He’s sure he bleeds. He cannot take his eyes off of the brilliant orange and gold of the fire as it continues to spread well away from him, a sea of flames reflecting off the wide, pale-grey saucers of the prince’s eyes. His sight starts to sting; he blinks away tears. The smoke becomes thick; it clogs his throat. He coughs. The air is pulled from his lungs; he takes another step backward.

He cannot think. The smoke muffles his thoughts, cotton pressed against his brain. He can only think of Abraham, the image of his larger, darker, younger brother painted on the inside of his eyelids. He does not know where Abraham is. Overhead thunder rumbles, and the gods are angry.

He tries to approach the flames—he is pushed back by the heat. The smoke billows around him, and he chokes on it. His chest aches; the tears that sting his eyes start to pour. He cannot breathe, though his heart flutters incessantly. He does not know what to do. He doesn’t know.

Lightning crackles loudly overhead. His knees tremble weakly against the strongest gust of wind yet. He backs away from flames again, and surrenders to the terror in his heart. It’s mixed with other things that should not be there, worries he’s never had before, anxieties, apprehensions. He wants his mother. He turns, and he is shackled to a walk—but he walks on, surely coughing a lung into destruction, leaving behind the monster he has unleased.

The sky does not care; it refuses to weep.



"talk talk talk"