I used to lie on our thatched roof and look at the black night sky. My father used to say that long ago the night sky was filled with twinkling lights called stars. As I looked at the darkness above me I used to imagine those lights. My father would tell me all sorts of stories as I lay on the roof, of the Architects and the magical contraptions they had.
My father was a butcher and was proud of the sharpness of his knifes. He'd often boast of them to customers as I shied away in the back of our house. He taught me to use those knifes and how to fight under the starless night. Every time he taught me he would say the same thing. "Don't ever kill Bhane, you got that, promise me you'll never kill anyone."
I hated my father for that.
Whilst he slept I would go outside and stare at the soul sucking blackness of the sky holding his sharpest and boat beloved knife.
And it was with that knife that I sliced his throat under the single star.
