Blackberries

One day, when he was little, his mother sent him outside, and told him to go find blackberries for dessert that night. Dutiful boy that he was, even back then, he went to the only patch of blackberries he'd ever seen-outside the walls. As he was picking them, he suddenly wondered how they tasted; whether they were good enough to count as a dessert to him. He popped one into his mouth, bit down, and spit it out immediately. It tasted horrible! He tried several more, until in disgust he crushed a berry in his hand. As the orange-haired boy watched the red-purple-black color of the berry's juice stain his palm, he came upon an idea of testing.

The child lifted his hand to his mouth, and slowly licked up the juice from the berry. This one was too sour-but he had found a way of testing that suited him. The boy frantically went through the berries, squeezing each until it popped, then taste-testing the juice that was dripping down his hand, wrist, and arm, unhindered but for his questing tongue. After each he grew more and more desperate- this one was too bitter, this one too sour, until he came to one that broke with almost no pressure at all. As he tried the juice, he spat disgustedly. THIS one was TOO sweet! And the sickeningly sweet, soft berry was discarded as well, while the boy slumped in despair. He decided to try one more berry before giving up and going home.

He pulled a single berry off the clump, and squashed it uninterestedly between his fingers. He licked up a little of the juice… and paused. This berry… tasted good. It was a perfect combination of sour and sweet. His heart lightened, he threw the smashed berry into his bucket, and returned to his task with great vigor. Two hours later, as he proudly held the bucket up before his mother, who looked at his juice-stained mouth and hands with a wary eye.

"Why did you crush them, Erol?" she asked.

He blinked worriedly at her, then replied, "How else was I supposed to know which ones tasted best?"

His mother shook her head, then told him to go wash up and play quietly in his room until dinnertime. He left, looking back over his shoulder at his mother, who was shaking her head slowly, gazing at the bucket. As he was washing his hands, he wondered if there was a way to make berries taste exactly the way he wanted them to.

As the grown man watched the green blonde on the restraining chair writhe with pain as purple electricity sparked and crackled across his form, he knew that there was.