They said it was in his nature. The signs were there for everyone to see, the butterflies` wings, the kitten in the barrel of water, and later his dog let loose amongst the sheep. Those who loved him said he would grow out of it, those who didn`t only shook their heads.
He is sixty now, his face pallid, his hair prematurely grey. They still visit him, tell him surely parole is only a matter of time. Back in his cell he smiles as he watches the cockroach squash beneath his boot. He does not want redemption, only recognition for what he is, what he has always been...