Mister Psycho Killer
Leah comes home after dinner. Mom corners her in the kitchen. Sharp words fly over the din of the television. A song fragment fills my head: ticking clock, music box melody. I press my palms against my ears.
The argument drags on and on. “It’s the top art school in the country,” Leah shouts. “It’s not some…” An ad on the TV drowns out the rest. I pull James’s book out of my backpack, open it to the beginning.
“AOL now has an exciting, fun service just for kids,” the TV blares. Leah shouts indistinctly over the din. There are no earplugs in my desk, dresser, or nightstand. I make ersatz ones out of paper napkins. Try to focus. I force my brain to read.
Be not trapped in this dead world of passing illusions. The Garden is yours in unity, consuming and creating itself
