The Cackle Echoed

I swiftly got up from the stool and walked over to him.

His eyes widened and he started for his room.

I grabbed his arm and ripped the little baggie out of his hand.

I held the translucent pouch up to my face

and got a good look at what was inside.

For a moment,

I couldn’t breathe.

Time seemed to stop right then and there,

as I stared at the substance.

It cackled at me.

It spit in my face and laughed hysterically,

knowing that it had won.

It was making fun of how naive I had been,

so stupid to think this boy would listen to a man

he hadn’t been able to look at square in the face for a full year.   

Then anger surged through my body,

curling my hand into a fist around the baggie

and tightening my grip on my sons arm.

I whipped my head around and pierced his frightened brown eyes

with the fury that was blinding mine.

My wife screamed at me and pulled on the back of my shirt,

begging us to stop.

The rage swelled.

I let go.

He ran.

She cried.

The cackle echoed.