He wanted a fish with teeth. He wanted a fish with sharp pointy teeth and a big fish tank as big as his dresser. He wanted a silver fish with 32 razor sharp teeth, sharper than a knife, its scales gleaming like polished silver under the dim glow of his bedside light, each scale edged like a blade, overlapping in a perfect suit of armor. He wanted a fish with gills flaring with each breath, like the heartbeat of something ancient, something that had survived endless wars beneath the sea. And when he threw a piece of raw turkey in the tank or a strip of steak, he wanted to watch it, a silver blur, a streak slicing through the water, only a ripple on the surface, its mouth open, a cavern of 32 needle sharp teeth, rip apart the meat, and the water would turn red, splash out on his blue rug, scare his dad, his mom, and they wouldn’t come in his room or bother him or fight or throw dishes or each other against the wall. Water flinging everywhere like it was raining in his room, a loud thunderstorm as big as his big silver fish with 32 teeth and all four wisdom teeth, cold, black eyes, empty, holding no fear, no mercy, just hunger.
