
Bran sat down at the river’s edge. He picked up a small stone and tossed it in, without paying attention to where it went or the splash it made.
Why did Drest always treat him so rotten? It wasn’t fair.
As Bran sat, staring at nothing on the outside, every slight the older boy had ever given him, real or imagined, came up.
A deep heat rose from the iciness. He’d show him! Why, the next time they met, he’d take care of that bully.
Bran didn’t notice his teeth gritting nor his breathing becoming heavier and ragged. He didn’t realize that his fists were clenched nor that his face was red.
Images of what he’d do with Drest flashed through his mind. They began to swallow all other thought. With the violent, angry thoughts, came darkness. All light was blocked by the mental fog.
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