It’s beautiful out tonight. The stars are bright, and the moon blankets me in the ethereal warmth of its light.

The crickets are singing a joyous song in praise of Gaea, thanking her for the bounties that she continuously bestows upon them.

The hushed cries of a child pull me away from the tranquility of the night, and I head toward the source. The sounds of my steps disappearing into nothingness.

I find a child, sitting on a porch, sobbing into his knees as if he was too afraid to be heard.

“What’s wrong kiddo?” I ask, in a calm, disarming voice.

He looks up at me with quivering lips and a tear-stained face. There is a fresh cigarette burn on his left cheek.

I hear the source of his consternation; a man is yelling, presumably at the boy’s mother, though I can’t make out what he is saying.

I kneel and open my arms, inviting the boy in for an embrace. He accepts and I hug him with a love as if he were my own child.

“It’s going to be okay,” I whisper into his ear.

A pungent and stale odor escapes from the front door as I enter the house. The floor is littered with beer cans and cigarette buds.

I hear a loud crash and make my way toward the kitchen where I find a man, hovering over his wife with a bloodied and clenched fist, as she pleads with him. He is dressed in only a wife-beater and boxer shorts.

I clear my throat, demanding his attention, and he turns around, holding a half-empty bottle of booze in his “free” hand.

“Who the fuck are you,” he says. His speech is slurred and almost incomprehensible.

“Good evening, sir,” I respond. “I’m terribly sorry for intruding, but I happened upon your son crying outside when I heard a commotion. I decided to investigate and, well, here I am.”

“Well, get the fuck out!”

He takes a step forward, but before he can take another, I form fiery sigils, my hands moving with the precision of a surgeon.

Hands pierce through the heavens and the earth, grabbing him, and twisting in opposite directions. A cacophony of pain and agony fills the air, eclipsing the sound of flesh tearing and bone grinding.

I use the blood from his exsanguination to fill the chamber of my bong and pack the bowl with his ground-up remains.

I light it and take a pull so deep and satisfying that the contents of the bowl turn to ash. Holding it in, I walk over to the still screaming mother and exhale into her face, instantly calming her. I kiss her on the forehead and tell her that “everything is okay now.”

I leave the house and pat the boy on his head.

“Make sure you take care of your mom, okay. You’re the man of the house now.”

“Okay,” he responds, and I walk away.

He says something else, but I can’t hear him over the encore performance of the crickets.