Milton looked at the small, shivering baby bird that he cradled in his mud-caked hands. Tripping over a root and landing face first into the soil has brought him an interesting discovery.
He did not know where it came from, or what type of bird it was, but he saw it as terribly fragile and far weaker than anything he’d ever seen. It shook violently in his hands, and he soon realized that he was able to end this young creature’s short and miserable life.
Now, this was quite a powerful revelation for Milton, a mere boy of seven. He had the capacity to sever its head, or crush it under the weight of a rock, or step on it, or, perhaps the most simple answer, set it down and be on his way. This little flicker of life he could affect in the most heinous of ways.
This little boy with his shoes on the wrong feet, could play God to a helpless nestling. Excitement and a perverse kind of lust shot through his body, and in a blurred frenzy, Milton tightened his grip around the bird and slammed it against a mossy boulder. It wailed as the impact crushed its skeleton, and warm blood seeped into Milton’s hands as he dug his nails hard into the carcass.
Giggling, he stuck his first kill, his bloody badge of honor into his shirt pocket, and tottered on home.