He stood up in his bed, lightning struck from the clouds of cigarette smoke above his head. Pupils large like saucers in his eyes.  Dead skin around his lips, bed covered in last night’s fries.  Forearms infested with cigarette burns, like ****** tattoos in Braille. Yet he smiles, and through the silence you can hear his lips crack. Eyes wide and brows twitch
**** them, *****
Little bill swings his legs off the side of his bed, the bed springs creak as he stands. On his toes, he heads for the door. Walking slow, sweaty footprints on the hardwood floor.
**** them
He walks into the kitchen, using his cell phone for light. Slides open the drawer and picks up the largest knife. A straight A student, who knew he was ****** in the head. Surely he didn’t walk into his parents’ room with his knife to cut bread. He stood over his father, while he snored in his deep slumber. Smiled and burst out into an uncontrollable laughter. Little bill ran his fingers up the edge of the knife. Stabbed him repeatedly. Stabbed him dozens of times and made sure he did it right.