She didn’t like children. Well, she did. She loved kids. That’s why she didn’t like them.

At least here, in the middle of the stars, they could control who’s on the ship. Who invades their home. Who they let in. She couldn’t say she was glad when the little girl left, not out loud. But they saw it. They saw the relief.

She supposed they took pity on her. It wasn’t a secret, what was done to people like her. How they were tested. How they were broken. Still, she wasn’t used to pity. She knew fear, anger, misplaced hatred, placed-very-correctly hatred, expectations of loyalty, expectations, disappointment, scorn, terror, and something that always passed for respect in everyone’s mind but hers. She’d never experienced pity before.

She realized why people didn’t like it. She realized why people got angry or offended in the face of it. It was a reminder that they failed. A reminder of the mistake they made, that no one else did. She realized, so she pushed it, pushed it until that pity turned into fear. Pushed it until they hated her.

Like the monster she was.