September 13th, 2134

Heart—check. Lungs—check. Stomach—check. Intestines—check.

All that was left to dissect were the bones of the frog; a tricky and tedious process but nothing that Rowan didn’t have the patience for. He started with its left leg. First, a long incision to break the skin. Then four more cuts to sever ligaments and muscles unique to this frog species. And two final chops, a scrape, and a light pull to separate leg bone from its hip and foot. Simple and easy. He couldn’t comprehend why over half the class appeared to have difficulty.

Mrs. Bentley had instructed his classmates to ignore the feet plus other complicated parts because those would take too long, much to Rowan’s displeasure. Something about cutting up these carcasses sated the increasingly frequent bouts of cold or fiery anger which had plagued him during the slightest annoyances. This was his favorite class by far. Something about the sciences was reminiscent of his video game collection which had grown substantially over the past weeks. His good parents had been wise to give in to his requests.

The two weeks since his discharge passed uneventfully while Rowan’s strength returned. After the first day, judging from his parents’ reaction to his behavior, it became clear that his personality had changed in some way. They’d clearly been expecting a different Rowan to return to their home and he wasn’t that Rowan. He didn’t even know what kind of Rowan they expected. He had tried acting out a few different personalities, but that seemed only further to disturb his parents, which of course it would, in hindsight. He’d need to be more careful in the future.

Though soon enough, Rowan had learned his brain injury robbed him of a whole spectrum of emotions, empathy, and caused a significant personality change. At least for while his brain was reliant on the bionic implants. It’s what Roth had speculated during the first checkup. Graciously, the doctor had been quick. Te meeting had lasted a mere thirty minutes—after dismissing Rowan’s query on the little inconsistency he’d noticed in the virtual reality simulation. Roth had merely said it was a natural memory artifact caused by trauma, amplified by the machine that’d pieced together Rowan’s memories.

Perhaps that was all. The good doctor had saved his life. He deserved the benefit of the doubt at a minimum, even if Rowan was still suspicious of Roth’s peculiar, clownish act.

A gentle voice ended Rowan’s trance and ruminations. “Rowan, are you alright?” Mrs. Bentley asked. “You’ve been staring off into space.”

She was a plump woman and headed biological sciences. In the few memories Rowan had of her, she’d always treated him fairly. Therefore, responded neutrally, “I’m fine, Mrs. Bentley. Just thinking about my classes and some of the content I missed.”

“Alright. Let me know if you need anything.”

“I’m fine. My frog is almost done.”

Off she went. That was the end of that annoying exchange. He did not need help.

Rowan could remember most of his schooling after a week of quick revision. The images of his life were blurry, but numerous memories including knowledge of mathematics, sciences, English and other subjects were clear as ever, if not more so. He could recall a few people of significance to himself. Most others escaped him.

A student’s hand went up, and Mrs. Bentley gave him a weak grin and waddled from her desk. A pair of goldfish by the door noticed her approach. She glanced at Rowan again before attending the kid.

It was clear that Mrs. Bentley had been taken aback by Rowan’s personality change. He didn’t care. All his teachers from the maths guy to the P.E. coach had been briefed on his accident, condition, and lingering symptoms. The only thing they didn’t know, including his parents and Roth, was his growing bouts of rage issues. Anger appeared to be one of few emotions that hadn’t been robbed or severely muted.

Yes… damn those wolves. And curse his mother for that god-forsaken camping trip. He couldn’t be bothered to attempt feeling any sympathy for her—it was all her fault. Waves of ice emanated from the back of his neck as he mulled and stabbed the frog. He swore a cold hollow cut into the base of his neck, almost like a… connection to an infinite void.

A nasal voice wafted over from the right. “First day back and the dumbass needs all his teachers to babysit him. He doesn’t even have a bloody bandage.”

Max. That was the guy’s name. Rowan recalled one or two fuzzy images. Curly, brown hair. Chubby cheeks—quite overweight. Big ears, fat nose. It was unmistakably him. He’d been cracking snide comments all day, truly testing Rowan’s control over his emotions. Getting away with anything deliciously violent here would be difficult, to say the least. It’d be a needless complication to his life.

Rowan ignored the remark and focused on his growing frog skeleton. He just needed its scapula, right arm, and skull. He could glue these bones together into a model skeleton. With a peek at the time, he could skin the hands and feet before this period ends. Bones, muscles, and organs were a thing of beauty, Rowan had to admit. Anatomy fascinated him. Apparently, it hadn’t before. Strange.

Jonathan, his apparent friend, said from a meter to the left, “Whoah. Man, that’s amazing. How did you get all that done in just half an hour?”

“What do you mean?” Rowan said without looking up from his work. Sticky ligaments lined every limb. He took extra care to remove the thin bones without damage.

“I can barely stand touching their slimy insides.” His voice curled up and down in tone, signaling mild disgust. Or excitement.

Rowan shook his head. “I don’t understand. It’s just some slime.”

“It’s gross, and it smells.”

What a buffoon. Rowan suppressed a sigh. “Use the tongs and clippers. You don’t have to touch it.”

Jonathan grunted in response, concentrating on his own mutilated frog that looked to have more than two broken bones and slashed organs. Definitely a buffoon. He couldn’t possibly be a friend.

When he had arrived at Westwind this morning, the teachers and the dean decided not to inform his classmates the details of Rowan’s injury. It’d been explained as an accident and then left the matter at that to respect his privacy. His small circle of friends whom he had no memory of, Jonathan, Gabrielle, and Tory, weren’t informed either. Rowan didn’t care either way and suspected they had been assigned to watch him, in case he collapsed or worse. They’d certainly done a good job and acted friendly when they’d introduced themselves before first-period.

Jonathan was on the soccer and basketball team, a decent athlete but not anything else, much faster and stronger compared to Rowan. That had justified a position on the student council. He could be somewhat useful if he weren’t so idiotic.

Gabrielle was a strange, intelligent girl who didn’t behave like anyone else. She was quirky and unique. She had to be a genius as well. And combined with that petite but curvy figure, the girl had stirred something deeply primal within Rowan during their interactions. Quite sexy she was. He would’ve advanced on her if it weren’t for all the witnesses. Too bad for her.

As for Tory, she was Gabrielle’s very ordinary sister, quiet and mellow. Their personalities and looks didn’t match, interestingly. He could put up with the duo for they weren’t too annoying, so far. Gabrielle’s body certainly helped. Though the other males peculiarly avoided her like she was toxic waste. It had to be her odd and kind of childlike character.

With a flick of the wrist, Rowan sliced through the final ligament to retrieve a femur. A few more parts and that frog skeleton would be done save for the hands and feet.

At the corner of his eye two workstations away, Gabrielle’s straight blonde hair fluttered in the draft. She poked her frog with a stirring rod and sprinkled a white powder. The limbs jiggled and moved like it was alive, much to Rowan’s interest. It had to be a chemical reaction that activated its muscles or nerves. This girl would be useful in the future. Rowan made a mental note to strengthen this relationship as much as possible.

And fuck her along the way too. Without doubt, she was going to be delicious prey.

“Arrhhh,” Jonathan moaned, “how do I get the muscles off the bone?”

Rowan sighed and leaned over. Hacked-up frog parts laid splattered on a crooked cutting board, and deep gashes ruined the organs. He was destined to either fail—or barely pass the final exam for bio because of his jock status. “Cut the tendons and ligaments. They’re small. Reread the textbook.” Rowan’s fingers twitched. It was challenging to keep annoyance from affecting his tone, more so every passing day.

Jonathan forced the knife through a resistance. “Oh, I think I got it.”

Idiot. He’d cut right through a bone. Rowan shook his head and returned to his station to begin dissection of that skull.

Something hit Rowan in the back of the head from behind. A piece of rubber bounced to the floor.

Another piece hit his frog skeleton, spraying the bones all over the table and floor.

A scowl pulled at his face. A wave of tingling hate washed through his nerves. Spinning around and searching for the culprit, he caught the sneering, pig-like face of Max.

Then it all came back: the beatings, the teasing, the stolen notebook. The god-damned school administration which needed Max's money more than they needed integrity. The reason why Rowan’s parents had taken him to that reserve. All because of Max. All because that shithead had some kind of compulsion to make the lives of his classmates miserable, especially Rowan far and beyond anyone else. The ghostly pain of past bruises across his back, arms, and legs gnawed at him and ached in his mind. A thousand insults filled his ear all at once. It was all too much.

Max hadn’t treated him well.

Rage took control over his body, and that chilly thing at the back of his neck grew until frost consumed his skull. And Rowan knew it wouldn’t be satisfied until Max paid for his crimes.

Jonathan whispered, “It’s alright man. He’s a loser.”

The words bounced off his frozen ears. Rowan stood and picked up the nearest bone and rolled it between his fingers. The room pulsated as every heartbeat swelled through his body. The ice in his spine blazed. The feeling was indescribable, exhilarating, an insatiable hunger. He only knew one thing: he will kill Max before the day is done.

Perhaps it was karma; perhaps it was the universe’s way of balance. Max’s actions had directly led to what’d happened in the forest and Rowan’s resulting condition. And now those same actions were coming back around. It was justice; it was objectively right. How many others had Max tormented? How many other families had Max’s father stepped on? This was one vermin infestation the world could do without—and Rowan would gladly put down a pig before maturity, gladly put down another wolf.

But how? How to kill a boy without going to prison?

“Rowan,” Jonathan said. “Are you okay?”

The icy void told Rowan to ignore the cretin, and he did. There was bacon to be fried.

Rowan peeked over his shoulder. Max sat in the corner, by his gang of three. He sat on the last seat of the row by the window, the paper towel dispenser, and a stack of science magazines. His right was exposed, his back too. His muscular buddy covered his left, and Rowan didn't entertain the thought of approaching from the front.

A hand touched his shoulder. “Rowan.”

Jonathan again. Why couldn’t he be more useful?

“I’m fine.” His voice was too low to sound fine.

Rowan glanced at the athlete. No, he couldn’t use the boy here. Maybe Gabrielle would be understanding but not this simpleton. He’d run to Mrs. Bentley in an instant. The icy, empty thing in Rowan's head recoiled at the stupid thought, smacking the back of his neck. It was getting hungry. It needed to be sated, or else, it warned.

A thought occurred: glass could shatter. If he could somehow smash the window into the room with enough force, the shards could impale the pig-boy. A beautiful sight it would be.

No—that was inane. Not mentioning getting away with the murder, there’d be no way it could work. Pig-boy would likely oink another day too, even if Rowan managed to embed a glass shard into his brain. It’d take at least a heart-stopping injury plus massive brain damage.

A falling object? Few classrooms had a second story, and fewer had a balcony. The chances of catching Max under one was slim to none. And hiding out in a tree was more inane than the first idea, and really, Rowan preferred a far bloodier, slower death for the pig. The void at the base of his skull simmered in anticipation. He savored every pulse of his burning heart.

He swept his gaze across the class and counted the twenty-six students. None would help Rowan. None would understand. Jonathan was back to hacking at his frog, stabbing with his scalpel…

Of course!

The blades weren’t as sharp as those used by surgeons, but if used on a weak-point, it’d cut right through an eye or neck. Perfect. One little surprise from behind and piggy-boy would squeal no more. Never again.

Now… how would he do this without jumping into a vat of trouble?

As the void smoldered, Rowan fingered his frog-bones while contemplating on this riddle. He could hide in a dark corner and wait for Max to pass by without his gang, which wouldn’t happen before graduation. He could lurk in a bathroom for a perfect trap, but someone would probably see him, and there were several possible bathrooms. What about after school? No, Rowan had seen Max picked up by his mother in the teachers’ parking lot. Nothing seemed to work.

The void growled in irritation. His back constricted and his nerves buzzed with frost. Why were murders so hard to plot?

Blast it, just do it now in front of everyone and plead insanity as a minor.

The phantom suggestion struck him with the intensity of an electric shock.

Yes, that might actually work. It'd been only a fortnight since Rowan's traumatic brain injury, and several bits of implanted biotech kept his brain running this moment. The very good Doctor Roth knew of his damaged psyche. Yes, it could work. At most, he’d be sent to a juvenile mental ward for a year or two while his brain regrew. It was the perfect plan. A wicked smile spread across his lips before vanishing a second later.

“Jon,” he said in a silky voice loud enough for Max to hear, “do you need any paper towel? I’m going to get some.” This way Max wouldn’t be suspicious of his approach.

Jonathan glanced at him for a second. “Nah, I’m alright.”

Rowan stood and faked a yawn; it was almost 4 PM, and some people took naps. The pig sneered at him as he approached but was busy with his frog which obviously just started undergoing dissection. What a numb-skull Max was. The world was going to be far, far better without him.

The frosty void twisted and curled in anticipation, Rowan’s pulse steady and hot. The combination of hot and cold stirred into a lukewarm symphony of glee. He gripped the scalpel in his right hand, hidden from view behind his leg. This was the happiest he felt in weeks.

He now stood behind the pig. His cheesy stench mixed with a strong whiff of deodorant.

Rowan made his move, hooking his left arm around his fatty neck.

Piggy-boy’s fat body wriggled, struggling in surprise. “What the fu—”

Not a heartbeat later, Rowan’s right hand slashed the blade deep under that flabby chin, tearing through fat, tendons, thin muscles, and arteries—though at great effort. It was like cutting through tough, slippery fabric. Oddly satisfying.

Blood fountained from the wound as Max's body tensed. Too satisfying.

“Max! Rowan!” Mrs. Bentley screeched and jumped to her feet, but it was too late.

Rowan plunged the bloody, six-inch scalpel into the pig’s eye. Then twisted and forced the thing all the way in. The pig’s gurgling screams died out in seconds as he twitched and bled. Most likely dead.

Better play it up, Rowan decided. “Ha. Ha. Ha,” he cackled and spat on the pig.

By now, the class was in chaos, in total uproar and horror. Max’s gang, sprayed with blood, appeared confused about whether to attack Rowan or back away. A few students rapidly took out their Holophones. Screams and Mrs. Bentley’s yells blasted Rowan’s ears. A neighboring teacher burst through the door. Rowan's howls grew increasingly genuine while the pandemonium unfurled.

But one thing, one person, stood out in the ruckus and refused to take part.

Gabrielle sat in her seat, head twisted and taking in the view like she was watching a television show. Her smooth, pink lips were parted an inch, but other than that, her face stared blank. “Huh.”

What an odd, pretty girl. Too bad this was probably the last time he’d see her—ever. Oh well.

* * *

September 27th, 2134

The judge’s stony eyes gazed down at Rowan as he read the sentencing. “Rowan Black, you have been found not guilty of first-degree murder by reason of insanity and sentenced to a high-security juvenile psychiatric institution until you are deemed sane and fit for society.”

Rowan kept up his blank mask and nodded, ignoring the sobs of his mother across the courtroom. His plan had succeeded and unfolded to a tee. His lawyer had agreed the minute he’d read Rowan’s medical file.

Max’s family glared, though they weren’t as emotional as Rowan’s parents. The pig’s father was rather fit and attractive, like his mother and older brother. Tears ran down the brother’s cheeks, and his glare was far more menacing. The slumbering void murmured up Rowan’s spine as he was taken away by his escorting officer. His grip was firm but gentle enough.