reaming was her greatest outlet.
The same could be said for most people, of course, but it was doubly true for her. She had a notebook made out of a three ring binder with a swan on the cover, and she filled the binder with whatever paper she could get her hands on.
And she drew her heart out. Everything that made her sad, everything that made her happy. She drew butterflies, and tapped on the page, and they came alive, fluttering off the paper, the thin blue lines from the paper becoming veins in the wings. The butterflies swarmed, up, up into the sky, before plummeting down and attacking a man.
There was no reason. He had not done even the slightest thing to her, but she did it because she wanted to hear him scream.
Sometimes, her dreams were different. She dreamed of being good, of saving the world. She dreamed of beautiful people who loved her fiercely, protectively, she dreamed of all the kindness she could do, if she were rich, if she were powerful.
So sometimes, she dreamed she was the hero.
But sometimes she also has to dream that she was the villain. Sometimes you had to feel the world burn to want to save it.