The little boy was cold, freezing, as he roamed the darkening streets.
It wasn’t the weather, really. The air was thick, the temperature high. It lay over him like a blanket, but he’d been cold for months now, the shivers overpowering his little body.
By now, he was used to it. The biting feeling at his limbs, the ice crawling up his veins. There was no warmth in his thoughts when he remembered the bloody body of his mother. And the feeling of his father’s hands around his throat was an ever present reminder of his own actions, of the fire burning at his hands, of the eyes he learned to hate.
Long ago, he had been sitting next to the lake near his parents’ house. A black cat purring in his lap. He had found it weeks ago, its leg broken. Back then, he hadn’t known how to heal. How to twist the power inside of him into something tangible. Still, every day found him next to the lake, nursing the little cat back to health the only way he knew how. He had felt warm then, watching it slowly learn to walk again, nuzzling its face into his own. The trust between them had been instant, and he had only realised later, seeing his reflection in the water, that they shared the same eyes.