January 25, 2019•149 words
When I was twelve years old, I chased a blue skink. The small reptile dashed beneath a heavy stone to avoid capture. This activity was mere sport for me; I payed little thought to the possible consequences of my carelessness. I pitched the stone backward to reveal my quarry but was surprised by its weight and found myself unable to hold it. Instead, it rocked back into place as I fell on my butt. With a sense of dread, I knelt down to lift the heavy stone with both hands.
Red and blue organs spilled out of the skink as it twitched and convulsed beneath the rock, now held aloft. I should have thrust down the stone in my hands to hasten the end of the unfortunate skink. Instead, I watched with a mounting sense of horror which would revisit me again and again during mournful nights spent alone.