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He sat there, magic hovering just above his hand. He moved his hand, swished his fingers, and the magic followed. He was bored. Bored and sad and lonely. He sat by the window, under a sky filled with the colors of a setting sun. He wished he was with someone who understood.
And then the longing and pain turned into anger. Anger at the whole world. The place that told him that his magic wasn't welcome, that he wasn't welcome. The place told him that he and his kind needed to leave and never come back.
The hovering magic turned the red and oranges of a burning fire. He rubbed his hands together, opened them by the ajar window, and commanded it out. It blew up like fireworks. And the fireworks just kept going. Red, yellow, and oranges, streaking across the burning sky, every color and shade expressing his unhappiness.
Who cares if people were yelling, wondering who was doing this? Who cares if the other tenant will complain, and get him kicked out of the apartment? He was going to show the world what he could do, and this was only the beginning