Dictatorby Sara Cutler, Williamsville, NYHe had a smug look on his face as he slowly walked past me, dragging his feet as if he were painting straight lines across the floor with his toes. He paused after each step, contemplating whether or not to kick me in the stomach. I glared at him suspiciously, attempting to predict his next move. He repeated these dance-like motions numerous times, then halted abruptly and whipped his body toward me."I want pop, I want cookies!" he ordered with startling authority and confidence for such a young child. For a moment, he looked thoughtful, pondering his next command. "Now!" The sound of his tormenting voice seemed to pinch every nerve in my body and I shuddered.Feeling rather satisfied with himself, he flung his tiny frame on the sofa. A frustrated expression spread across his already contorted face."Where's the remote?" he demanded in an irate yet slightly mocking tone.I scowled at him from the kitchen with such a fierce expression that even such a child should be frightened. "How should I know?" I responded in the most sarcastic voice I could muster.I was amazed. He seemed neither frightened nor affected by my glare or tone of voice."Find it NOW," he instructed."Find it yourself," I retorted, not about to be dictated to by a person less than half my age.I saw false tears forming in his glowering eyes. His face distorted as if he was experiencing unbearable pain. My stomach tightened, sensing what would come next. An eruption of tears exploded from his tiny face. I bit my lip, partly to keep from crying and partly to keep myself from ripping him apart. The latter seemed much more appealing.I scanned the disarray of the living room. I spotted the remote on the table not two feet from the wailing monstrosity.Taking slow, deliberate steps, I placed it in his menacing little fingers.A triumphant look spread across his red, swollen face as he turned on the television. He began to flip through the remaining stations with the quick, methodical rhythm of a serial killer. c