Thunder. Splatter of rain on the tin roof of the pavilion. Gusts of wind, carrying droplets, smacked his face.
His mother had warned him, “It looks like a storm is on the horizon, better stay put.”
And yet here he was.
Dusk had long passed; he would have to go back soon. He knew what awaited him. His father drinking, yelling; his mother, sobbing quietly, hard at work – it was all too familiar, too repetitive.
He stood up and passed his fingers through his wet hair. It has been a while since he had made up his mind. He put his hand inside his pocket, and felt the cool metal blade. It looked like a storm was on the horizon, and he was not going to stay put.