The child stared on as his father pummeled his mother with the hammer. The dull thudding of metal on flesh and bone would haunt him for the rest of his life, but for now, he stared. Without a sign of a cry, without a whimper, without a thought in his mind he stared. It was a strange sense of meditation, like the calm before a storm. He was aware of a lot of things, the pounding of his heart, the blood splatter on his white shirt that his now late mother got him a month ago at the new thrift store around the corner, his toy truck digging deep into his palm drawing blood, but most of all the thudding. That merciless sound reverberating around his skull. He would hear it in school when the teacher asked him a question and he would hear it the first time he almost made love to the girl he met in psychology class at university, he heard it as she ran out of his room saying something about the vomit on her dress, he would hear it right before his first interview and he would hear it as he ran away from there, and he would hear it in his dreams at the dead of the night on his couch in the tiny apartment where he would live in, drenched in sweat and lips trembling with a scream that would rip out of him soon, waking him. yes he would scream all right. He would scream himself awake and his bladder would give away and there he would cry, drenched in his own sweat, tears and piss. A glorious image of a son of god, bound to go to the kingdom of heaven and he would probably hear the thudding there too, and he would probably cry through his eyes shut tight, curved up on the floor assuming the position he had stayed in before he ever saw the first light. Curved up on the floor at the feet of the spirit, the son, and the father…but for now he stared.