At sunrise, everyone goes to work the fields, but Timo was held back specifically to get belted. Only him and the supervisor remain inside the polluted longhouse. Dried squash and corn bushels hang from racks. Blankets and hides sit in folded, neat piles along the walls. Pieces of a board game lie half-buried inside a sandbox. A clay bowl, full of shiny apples, poses on a nightstand some distance away.

The backs of his knees had turned red, but they’re so calloused that they couldn't swell. The apples are red too, and Timo really wants to eat them. He could snatch one on his way out, but the stingy man would notice it missing.

Behind him, a voice says, "Let this be a lesson to you, for going where you're not supposed to."

Harcus cracks the leather. Whap! The supervisor's voice fades into background static.

There were so many "supposed to's" in life. Maybe Timo is a little dumb, and he isn't perfect, but how can anyone remember all of them? Aren't there basically just two rules: serve Providence, and be nice?

Whap! The belt cracks in tandem with the logs in the hearth.

Full of misery, he does what all kids do: he daydreams. Whap!

He sat there, alone, surrounded by endless dirt. He argued with himself, saying he didn't need anyone, that he was good on his own. For a bit, he calmed down. Still, the echoes of his thoughts wearied him.

In the distance, the black and ominous crows cawed, and they flew in unison across the horizon. Evil creatures they may be, yet they had friends and families. The butchers, who were gross animal killers, had been warm and welcoming. The clouds were beautiful in the sun and fatal with the moon.

Whap!

Why isn't he dead yet? Are they too chickenshit to kill him? Did his parents ship him off, hoping someone else could orchestrate his demise? Whap!

His heart, which had been beating anxiously, slows down. A calmness settles into his mind. There is a place for him, but he'd have to take care of something first.

His eyes well up, and he makes sniffing sounds. The supervisor likes to whip until you cried, thinking it a sign of penance.

"Have you had enough, Timo?"

"Yes, sir."

Harcus lifts his heavy hand and rolls the belt back around his waist. "You may rejoin the others," he says.

On his way out, Timo veers left, where the fruit bowl sits. He takes it off the stand and carries it back to Harcus, who had leaned on a stool to put out the fire. Harcus tilts his head, squinting at Timo. Without a word, Timo smashes the bowl into the man's face with all the force his nine-year-old arms could muster.

Although he imagined the man would instantly fall unconscious, like how people in amatuer theatre died, his victim screamed instead. The fruit bowl shattered way too loudly.

Panicking, Timo slammed into Harcus, knocking the wind out of both their lungs, and pushed him off the stool.

He wished the man wouldn't scream again, and he grabbed at the slick throat. As Timo did with the weeds, the threads of his will rooted themselves into the man's body, invading every cell and ripping the bonds apart. Harcus batted at Timo, fighting to free his purple self.

The events that played in Timo’s mind reflected onto reality. From the throat, the vocal cords fanned out like flower petals. The ribcage split open like a fresh pomegranate, and the sharp bones reared upwards. The skin flew like a white sheet slipping off a bed of muscle. Plump intestines splayed out. The front of the supervisor's cranium was caved in, and his eyeballs were a little too close to each other.

Timo exhales violently and the air hisses. Harcus’s head slumps sideways, brimming froth, and his arms drift apart, ticking, before thumping onto the rug. The boy holds his breath, unsure if the man would suddenly leap at him, or if he had truly died. He stares at the body until it has settled. With his curled fingers stiffer than steel, he wriggles them loose, squick by squick. I did something bad. Very, very bad.

He steps backwards, and in his dizzy mind, the walls squeeze in on him. What a spectacular mess! Nothing like the clean cuts that the butchers make. An acrid odor fills his nostrils, and the multicolored rug blends into a monolithic brown. Blotches of translucent slime drape over the individual fibers in that viscous way, like syrup that won’t let go. Chunks of red fat found a home on the ceiling.

Convinced he’s going to die, Timo stands with his hands at his sides, his palms facing forward. He lifts his chin and closes his eyes, waiting for a lightning bolt from the sky to strike him.

He waited and waited. The cicadas started chirping again.