Jack was mad. He stomped in his house and let the storm door slam. The sound was drowned out by loud rock music of some band he didn't know from his dad's radio. It couldn't stifle the putrid stench of the place, however. Jack was used to the ruined banana peel, old blood smell that had just been getting worse ever since his mom flew the coop a few years ago.

Jack rarely thought about his mom. When he did, he was mostly just remembering his dad beating her or yelling at her. He remembered the last time vividly. His mom was cowering on the kitchen floor. His dad was stomping on her and kicking her. He took the knife off of the counter and grabbed her by the hair, swearing he would cut her throat. Jack hid in his closet. When he woke up the next day, his mom had already left. He thought maybe she couldn't find him to take him with her. He was sure she'd come back and get him, but his dad said that she told him Jack was just as messed up as he was and she was never coming back.

Jack dashed down the hallway of his run-down trailer and went into his room. The floor was stained with various spills and some liquids from tortured animals. Dried blood. A little crusted vomit. A dirty mattress lay on the floor without a frame or a sheet. A thin, holey blanket lay rumpled on top. A flat, square pillow that had come with the couch as a decorative accent many years ago was at the top of the mattress. There was a pile of laundry in the corner. One wall had little holes and slits in the lower part. It was completely covered all the way to the halfway mark. Beside it, his toy box.

Jack's toy box didn't only hold broken toys and souvenirs, like cat and dog collars. He had a little bag in there, too. It was a makeup bag with stripes that used to be his mom's. He kept his real toys in there. The very ones he sometimes used on the wall, but most often used on his poor furry victims. This time, he had a much more exciting target.

Out came the little bag. Jack unzipped it and checked for his favorite. The pocket knife he snuck out of his father's jeans pocket one night. He pushed aside a couple of screw drivers, a steak knife, and a lighter to get to the pocket knife. He took it out and looked at the blade. It was about three inches long and sharp. There was a blood stain between the metal slits where it closed. It had been there since Jack got it, but the blood that was already there had mingled with the blood that he had put there from unfortunate animals.

Jack closed the knife and put it in his pocket. He went back outside.