Lake Lewisia #565

The instinct, growing up angry and confused and always, always too sensitive, had been to burn everything down and run from the wreckage, even when he was only old enough to smash his own toys and run into the next room. The baking and the woodworking and all the other little things he built and made came later, when he was old enough to do real damage and old enough to know he didn't really want to. He chose arts that wanted a little violence, things that came together in fire instead of crumbling, not so much changing himself as channeling that slow explosion always blooming in his chest.

---

LL#565