When I was twelve years old, I chased a blue skink. The small reptile dashed beneath a heavy stone to avoid capture. This activity was mere sport for me and I payed little thought to the possible consequences of my carelessness. I pitched the stone backward to reveal my quarry but was surprised by its weight and found myself unable to hold it. Instead, it rocked back into place as I fell on my butt. With a sense of dread, I knelt down to lift the heavy stone with both hands.
Red and blue organs spilled out of the skink as it twitched and convulsed beneath the rock, now held aloft. If I had been wise, I would have thrust down the stone in my hands to hasten the end of the unfortunate skink. Instead, I watched with a mounting sense of horror which would revisit me again and again during mournful nights spent in solitude.