I find him folded into himself, knees tucked in the tabs of his arms,
an origami buddha working the controller buttons, eyes only for
the glow of the screen. He carries as many words as loose change
in his piggy bank, spent vacant, so I watch in silence.
Screams. Bang. Bang. Bang. Brains erupt, black splash blood
coats the view then fades, but the fingers that walk my spine
between the blades come from the toothy smile that crests this
four year old face, that turns and says, "You get more points
for head shots."
Out the window, dogs growl. Flesh and teeth, then yelps.
In the other room, his parents sit, staring at the next big whatever,
singer, dancer, chef, x-factor. The volume turned up loud,
for the silence.
written for Imperfect Prose