" Pirouetting, face wet with tears and sweat, he collides with a little oaken desk, the impact scattering crayons, markers, hallowed implements of a child’s embryonic creativity. In one swift moment he grasps the little black scissors, sets his palm flat against the desktop and with all his juvenile strength slams the scissors through into the wood.
Blood spits up like a tiny volcano, and the electric pain is a key in a lock. Now something on the outside matches the ravaging within, and it’s indistinguishable from which the shrieks generate.
The Spirit reminds him of an epiphany that night. It poured into his mind as though the blood on the desk had left a vacuum that immediately began to fill, and he realized that one day, he would kill his father."
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