I hate baby-sitting.
My younger cousins were playing with wooden bamboo swords. They noticed me watching intently, and so, forced me to join them.
I saw it as a waste of time—exactly what I was aiming for.
Of course, I was going easy on them... at first. But with every swing, with every swerve, with every slice, every silent whoosh of my sorry excuse for a sword against thin air (for I was careful not to hit them), my strikes got faster, and faster, and stronger... Through their innocent eyes I was slowly being transformed into a villain: evil, unsympathetic, treacherous, scary! I chased them from the living room to the kitchen and back, and the high-pitched laughter of children and screams of staged terror filled the house. And then as I was nearing one of them, I raised my sword, did a blind swing—followed by a sickening thud as wood meets collarbone...
Someone wailed. The roar of an engine was heard. I ran for my life.
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