I have been accused of being a callous man, solitary and apathetic to the plight of others, but I can say that if that is so, that I wasn’t always. This tutor had been warned by Father, backed against a wall in our den, random sharp object to his neck, not to encourage my peculiarness and stick to the curriculum. When a distant neighbor called upon our door to ask if we’d seen her dog, not only did I receive a staunch one, but the best teacher I ever had collected his last payment with the helpful removal of his front row of teeth.

Mother pleaded my innocence, even drumming up the courage to compare unfounded accusations made by the SS at Father’s expense. In truth, part of that neighbor’s pet hid my begifted course book. My guilt in that matter served no purpose to surface.

Now it must be understood, this lamb placed in my arms by the Vice Chief was also slotted for the operating table. I wanted to see if it could survive with a transfusion of my own blood. The experiment of course presented itself while I was reading one of the studies. The Institute had run a lengthy trial, placing vats of murderer blood from the Municipal Dungeon into orphans’ arms. Most of the orphans died before transfusion, but a few strong specimens survived. The damn rainwater ruined the last several pages, but I imagined the spectacular transformation of these test subjects in their cages: street children screaming through the bars with eyes of predation, walking among the caged viewing areas while pumping the blood of cutthroats. I didn’t have the resources needed for full replication, but a lamb wasn’t bad.

I’d spent a week or so tactfully letting my blood, being sure to avoid the constant threat of discovery and cataclysmic reaction from my parents. Then the “Day of the Lamb,” as I’d come to call it, finally arrived. Enough blood was stored, and Father was heavily asleep from a full day of the stable.

I laugh now at the ruthless ambition. Although cursedly naïve at the time, as we all must be, I am proud of who I was at such a young age. The story was already concocted: wolves stole the lamb. And I was going to use the blood I drained from it to make room for my own and paint a believable scene of carnage.

Down in the cellar, to optimize my sight, I placed candles in the shape of a triangle. In this triangle’s center was a low table that I laid the lamb on. I tied down a front leg, but when I reached for the other, chaos erupted.