#like since grade seven or something i've felt the pressure to have crushes and i've had a lot of false crushes tbh? like this is how i

[haddonfieldproject]

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1.2.21 HALLOWEEN NIGHT/NOVEMBER 1st AROUND SUNRISE

Haddonfield, Illinois

Rosalita craned her neck to see the time. There was no clock in the supply closet, no light now to see a clock if there was one, the power had gone off shortly after Sheriff Brackett had left her here. When that lightning hit, she thought. She knew the lightning had something to do with it. The Sheriff's daughter, who lay in a hospital bed that took up virtually all of the room in the storage closet, had an IV hooked up to her arm. On the pole that held the IV was a little box with all sorts of buttons and blinking lights and gauges of a sort. Rosalita of course, had no idea what it all meant or was for, but the box had a little display screen that cast a soft blue-green glow inside the closet, and gave her the only light she had. On the bottom right corner of the box was the time. ‪05:46‬. Next to the time was a battery symbol, it was red and flashing...just like the same kind of symbol on the box on Rosalita's IV had been as well before it died about thirty minutes ago and went dark.

This one is gonna die too and soon I'll be in the dark, she thought to herself in her native Spanish, looking down at her newborn baby which she cradled in her arms. The Sheriff had left her, the baby, and his unconscious daughter more than an hour and a half ago. He said he was going to see “just what the hell was going on”. A part of her hoped he'd gone ahead and found it out—or was going to find it out soon— so she could get out of this god-forsaken closet. Another part of her hoped he didn't.

She knew what was going on.

When they had heard the gunshot, she had known right away it had come from Ole' Bitch.

The only thing Sparky Warner may have loved more than his shotgun was draining the cans of Coors Light he used to shoot with it...certainly not Rosalita. He abused his wife almost as much as he had abused the cans. At least when he was done with Rosalita he just rolled ahead on over and went to sleep, but with the cans, he liked to line them up on a log in the back yard and either take pot-shots at them with his .22 or sometimes, if he was in the real mood for some fun, he'd obliterate them with 'Ole Bitch'.

“I named it after your mama,” he had told her once as he pulled it from the back of his work van.

Rosalita knew who the shotgun blast was for too.

Whitey Grey had done a bang-up job on the new roof of the Warner home last year. Sparky had been real appreciative too, and knowing Whitey to be a stand-up guy, and having felt sorry for him because he had been on the outs with his high-school sweetheart, he had been all too willing to give Whitey some odd jobs here and there around the Warner castle in exchange for some cash from time to time.

“Chelsea Keane has always been a fucking bitch, ever since high school” Sparky had belched, crushing an empty beer can in his hand and tossing it off the front porch. “I'm surprised you stayed with her this long.”

Whitey had looked into the hole of the can of his own beer. “I've always loved her man. Ever since we were in six grade. I've always felt she was the one for me.” He had taken a swig. “You know, like my soul mate.”

Sparky had fished a cigarette out of his mouth and laughed, punching his friend in the arm. “You gotta be kidding me with that pussy shit.” He had said, putting a flame to the end of his smoke. “Naw man...you stay here with me. Make that bitch feel what it's like to miss you.”

“You think so?” Whitey had asked.

“Fuck yeah. Besides, I got tons of shit around here you can do in exchange for crashing on the couch.” Sparky had replied, the cigarette bouncing in his mouth.

“Your old lady won't mind?” Sparky had asked.

“Who do you think wears the pants around here motherfucker?” Sparky had exhaled a plume of smoke. “You see,” he had said, pointing the cigarette at his friend. “That's your problem. You always let that bitch run you over. You think I ever let my woman boss me around?”

Whitey changed the subject, “What do you want done around here?” He had asked.

“You're a handy motherfucker...lots of shit.” Sparky had smiled. “These gutters haven't been cleaned a month of Sundays. I've been meaning to pressure wash this driveway. I got siding on the side that's fucked up and could use replacing...and shit...that well in the back has been compromised by about three autumn's worth of leaves.”

Whitey had shrugged and taken another swig of beer. “That sounds cool.”

“Yeah!” Sparky had taken another drag, “And you know...odd job shit. Like bring the salt pellets in from time to time. That shit's heavy and God knows my old lady can't do it.”

They had laughed together at this. Rosalita had watched and listened to this conversation out of the window while she was doing the dishes. She remembered it well because moments after her husband had berated her to his best friend, she had sliced her finger on a steak knife under the soapy water. It had left a small car on the inside of her left index finger.

Rosalita felt that place in the darkness now, thinking.

Yes, Whitey had done a real good job around the house.

After all, Sparky was real busy. His little electric company hadn't taken off the ground as well as he had liked, and he found himself a corporation of one, working seven days a week, twelve hour days.

Anyone with half a brain would have known how this was gonna play out.

One of Sparky's job's on a ‪Tuesday morning‬ had re-scheduled. Rosalita had never found out why. Sparky had come home ‪at ten o'clock‬ in the morning to find Whitey Grey in his underwear making pancakes for Rosalita, who was also in her underwear...well...at least from the waist down. If it wasn't for a well-timed right hook by Whitey and an even better timed smack with the pancake skillet by Rosalita...Whitey and Rosalita would have probably gotten a taste of “Ole Bitch” right then.

Rosalita and Whitey had gotten a room at the Extended Day down in Russellville for awhile, after six months they snuck back into Haddonfield, renting a little apartment two blocks from the Bypass near Orange Grove. By then, Rosalita was sporting a little belly that everyone in town knew wasn't Sparky's doing, and word of mouth travels fast in a little Midwestern town.

So far though Sparky hadn't caused any trouble. Hadn't even called.

That didn't stop Rosalita from knowing that the shotgun blast had come from “Ole Bitch”. She knew it as well as she knew that the sun was gonna come up over Little Egypt ‪tomorrow morning‬ from the east and set over the corn fields and hills to the west ‪tomorrow evening‬. She knew it deep down in the marrow of her bones and the bottom of her soul and had now fought for the last hour and a half to shake the image of Whitey Grey, the father of her newborn baby, laying dead somewhere in the hospital with his brains splattered all around.

And Sparky was now coming for her.

Her and her baby.

Can't think about that now, Rosalita thought, looking down at her newborn baby boy. The Sheriff said he'd figure out what was going on, and he'll figure it out.

Sheriff Brackett had been the top deputy dog in the town as long as Rosalita could remember. If pressed she would say that she had always trusted him, and she would just plain have to trust him now.

The display screen on the Sheriff's daughter went dark. Rosalita couldn't see her hand in front of her face...let alone her baby.

Oh please God. She thought. Let somebody find me in here.

And then she caught herself.

Anybody but Sparky.

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