The house is struck with terror!
Or it could just be the weather.
The downpour slowly seeping its
way through the roof.
You could leave, you know.
He promised that you could
if it got worse.
"Still, what are the chances of
catching your death
from a few drips
in the mop bucket?" he says,
laughing. You stay quiet.
When does drizzle turn to rain?
Maybe it's when the
pitter patters in the attic
descend to thunderous booms
as he moves downstairs. You
check the bedrooms for
water damage while he's out.
The floods have flung open
your suitcase, splattering clothes
across the carpet. You realise he's
picking up the kids from school.
So that you don't get a chance to.
The shift comes at autumn time.
When your children
stop shielding themselves from
the torrent beat down
in the kitchen. It splashes onto
the walls, the plates, the table.
They lie afloat now, playing
with rubble like rubber ducks
at bath time. The forecasts
never predict how it can hurt
without ever hitting you.
He can't change. You know better.
It's time. Quickly. Hold your
young ones close as you
wade through the doorway,
spilling over the welcome mat.
You may be soaked to the skin,
but race for the streets anyway.
Let the puddles break upon you,
waves against anklebone.
Find somewhere safe.
Hope the storm runs off its slates.
Stay up to watch the sun rise
and kiss you goodnight.
You know it still rains somewhere;
but he won't find you tomorrow.
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