Listen to her down there, pandering and fawning over him. She’d walk over burning coals if that man asked her to. It’s like a disease infecting her brain, robbing her of the capacity to see what’s right in front of her face. She’s meant to be an intelligent woman in her own right. Isn’t that the sort of thing she goes on about? But it stands for nothing when he is in the room. A big dirty magpie who steals all the shiny things.
The boy grabs the pillow, musty with his own smell, and silently screams his frustration into it. He doesn’t want to give them the satisfaction of hearing his rage and hatred. Better to keep it under control. Remaining blank-faced at the small humiliations is the only weapon he has. It pleases him to look as though he isn’t paying attention when in his mind he is imagining all the ways he might suffer.
He read about quicksand the other day for the first time. There was a thrilling horror in picturing it all; first the realization that you couldn’t quite move your feet, then the cold, wetness sucking you down, down, covering your shoulders, then your chin. You’d close your lips tightly, resisting its deathly kiss but in a second it would be creeping inside your nostrils, stoppering your breath. You wouldn’t even be able to scream …
Yeah, that would do nicely.
It occasionally troubles him, how much time he spends picturing horrible deaths in graphic detail. Sometimes he’s not sure this is entirely normal.
Sometimes he worries about what he might do.