Dance of the Damned

When you tear something apart and don’t hear that faint ripping sound, the task feels… unsatisfactory. In a way that gnaws at you, makes your hands itch to do it again.

He supposed it made sense. The creature was tiny, and perhaps such delicate things didn’t always announce their suffering. Unlike larger ones. But not hearing anything even after tearing its right lower wing had been disappointing.

He dropped the butterfly onto the ground. Its remaining orange and black wings trembling. It quivered next to another, already dead one with no wings left. That one hadn’t survived very long, but he had high hopes for this one.

A small, hesitant voice came from behind him. "What are you doing?"

He turned slowly, and there she was—the owner’s only daughter. Even at four, and him only three years older, he could tell she will be the prettiest girl he'd ever see. Golden hair and blue eyes, like one of those princesses in fairy tales. Or a doll. If he had known he’d be choosing a gift for someone like her, he would have picked something far better than the cheap heart necklace now dangling around her neck.

He remembered the sparkle in her eyes the first time she’d seen magic, sitting on her grandmother’s lap. Innocent, naive, and beautiful.

Beautiful things were his favorite to ruin, and he had never felt a stronger urge than at that moment. But he wasn’t allowed to hurt people—not until he was at least ten. For now, all he could do was imagine, observing the adults around him as they conducted deals and negotiations, pretending to learn something when he already knew everything. These visits to rich houses were boring and tedious.

"Testing." he replied, eyes fixed on the butterfly lying on the ground.

The girl tilted her head, squinting. "Testing… what?"

He didn’t answer. He crouched lower, fingers brushing the trembling creature. "Whether it wishes it were dead. Or whether it wants to live. To escape."

Her hands reached for it, curiosity evident. He abruptly stood up straight and crushed it under his shoe, causing her to gasp loudly.

"But it doesn’t matter what it wants," he says calmly. "The choice doesn't belong to it. It's all upto me."

The girl looked at him uneasily, trying not to look at the dead butterflies and forcing a small, polite smile. "Do… do you want to play with me on the swings?"

It wasn’t the words themselves that struck him—it was the quiet determination behind them. Even if she clearly didn’t want to be near him after what she had just witnessed, even if she longed to run back inside and cry, she had been told to entertain the guest. And so she obeyed like a good little dog.

He never took his eyes off the faint purple mark on her arm as she climbed onto the red swing. That tiny discoloration told him more than words ever could. Perhaps he could have related to her two years ago when he had those similar marks. But he took care of it himself, and the hands that inflicted that were now cold and rotting.

"Why don’t you run away if your family hurts you?" he asked, pushing the swing gently.

She immediately fixed her sleeve, and her shoulders tensed. "It's not what you think. They love me. They’re just… teaching me discipline."

He felt a strange flicker of irritation—and a dark, thrilling curiosity. She reminded him of a yellow bird in his brother's room. Inside a gorgeous golden cage. Something he liked more than the bird. But even when he opened the lid, it never tried to leave the cage.

He never understood why. It didn't make sense.

He could tell just what type of person she'll grow up to be from the way she flinched, the careful straightening of her posture, and the words she chose. A good girl who would do anything for her family, hiding bruises behind smiles. Secretly longing to be saved, though she would never admit it.

"Pathetic caged animals." He muttered under his breath. Then, without warning, he pushed her off the swing. Hard.

The girl stumbled on the grass with a scream, tears springing to her eyes. Yes. Just as he thought. She looked better when she cried.

"Why did you do that?" She sniffed, glaring at him as tears rolled down her cheeks.

"Because that's what you are." He replied with a shrug. "Weak, pathetic, and an unbearably stupid animal who is always going to end up alone. Because no one loves you."

He knew he could say whatever he wanted because she wouldn't have the memory of it anyway. He always found that to be the best part. Especially when he gets to do this to other kids.

Frustration and fear made her grab a small stone, hurling it at him. It missed, bouncing harmlessly away.

A slow grin spread across his face as he crouched down and picked up the stone. The girl yelped as he slammed it against his forehead until the area was scrapped and about to bleed, making her flinch.

"Enjoy it," he said softly. "Enjoy being disciplined for hurting guests, little canary."

She stared at him, frightened and defiant all at once, and he stood there, watching.

Beautiful things were made to be tested—and she was no exception.