Indiana Cold by John Patrick Robbins

Flash Fiction, John Patrick Robbins, Poetry

Indiana Cold

I had lived in the south for most of my existence.

Yet here I was stuck in the midwest in a snowstorm.

Freezing my balls off, watching the snow pile up with someone I had met off the internet and now was my constant companion.

It was a different kind of cold and it was definitely a different kind of place.

I was used to people who could do more than stare. Susan’s family were as welcoming as a cemetery and the weather outside matched the scene within.

I tried my best to ignore the awkward silence, but even I found it to be the wrong kind of silence.

“I know it’s rough here baby, but let’s just get through these two weeks and get the hell out of here and back home.”

Susan said as she snuggled next to me on that old couch.

The room was like everything about that place. Cold and unwelcoming.

And I just worked on the house for something to do, so as not to go insane from boredom.

Fixing holes in the walls from her drug addict brothers, left behind wrath.

Susan’s father was a closet case and first class prick.

A bitter fool who took everything out on everyone else, for not choosing to live his life to suit himself.

“This weather may keep you all here longer than you originally planned kids.”

“Well let me start breaking shit so I will have something to do.”

I replied to her father, as he shot me a look of pure disdain.

“Baby stop.”

Susan said, almost laughing in spite of her father’s scowl.

I didn’t push the issue and later on, as I sat alone watching the void.

Of barren fields being buried quickly by the snow I felt the oddest since of peace.

Swigging a bottle of almost empty Jim Beam I brought for the trip.

As Susan and her father were off to get supplies and I was left with the house, that was a home in title only.

The drinks went down fast, as I viewed a coyote off in the distance.

He was alone and understood the silence as so did I.

We had our freedom and that was about it.

We are no longer together, but I will always recall the coldness, that was that little house in Indiana where the silence was always a bit off.

Nothing was ever said between me and the people there.

I never waste a word, as I never waste a line to indulge in some sort of twisted parody of reality.

Susan was like a vault of secrets and if the walls could speak they would whisper the true origin of nightmares.

Old Jim Loveless, never liked me much and that was one thing that pleased me greatly.

I heard he died a few days back.

They pitched him into that cold ground and few if any seemed to give a damn.

It snowed that very night everyone is remembered to some degree.

Just not in the way that always paints them as anything more than a miserable child molesting prick.

It’s often cold in Indiana in the winter, seems it matches some of its residents’ personalities.

There is a lot to be said in the wrong kind of silence.

John Patrick Robbins,  Is the editor in chief of the Rye Whiskey Review. His work has appeared here at Punk Noir Magazine,  1870 Magazine,  Sacred Chickens,  San Pedro River Review,  Romingos Blog,  Heroin Love Songs,  The Blue Nib, Piker Press and Schlock Magazine. 
His work is always unfiltered.