Baseball in the Rain
Robbie was like a Peter Lorre movie character with a Dr. Moreau mentality, but without such force. I knew he was harmful. His restrained actions alerted me that I needed a clever escape. He never did hurt me, or my three-year old son, but I always waited for it. Robbie trusted me, and I was a perfect actress.
We were prisoners of a dark, magic world that took place in Robbie’s mind. He kept voodoo relics in his workshop out back. We often rummaged through belongings his dead mother had saved for him: bones, masks, robes, and more. Robbie performed his dark ceremonies while Aidan was asleep in the house. These usually involved a small animal and blood.
In the house, Aiden got into Robbie’s notebooks, pulling out pages of things he’d written—disturbing sexual things. "Whas’ dat Ma Ma?"
I pretended not to notice as I apologized and put the pages back in. I tried to get Aiden to watch a video or play with something, and worried Robbie would snap.
One day, Robbie left us alone and went into his workshop. I saw people through the cracks in the boarded-up window in the otherwise desolate field, where my abandoned car lay. I wanted to run, but was afraid. Anyway, it began to rain and they started to leave. I couldn’t believe it. I thought even baseball players played in the rain. Without thinking, I kicked through that wood-covered window somehow, and screamed.
submitted at 3:07am
24 May 2010
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