The storm creates an electric air throughout the neighborhood. Fire from the gods striking down the earth, a proof of higher power meant to keep people in line. Heavy winds and pouring rain shower down judgment on the middle class houses each full with its very own nuclear family.
The noise masks the sounds of all other life. Masks the sounds of immorality and pain at 109 Thompson St. The blue house at the end of the street, with the constantly changing scenery of decrepit cars and trucks, to the changing of the low-life men who are constantly coming in and out. Neighbors paying no mind, no attention except for the occasional “Did you see…” moment between each other.
Having no idea of what was happening inside, and seemingly forgetting about the eight year old living in the house too. A boy growing up inside the darkness of the overlooked house. His prayers were not heard beyond the damaged walls inside. No one actually thought of any of it until the day the boy was taken away. The news reporters, the questions, investigation. They paid attention then, made up their stories and excuses, no responsibility. They all were changed that day, the boy they saw being pulled out of that home was something that would forever haunt them.
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Lookin’ good so far. What was he … a watermelon baby?