Freewrite of Writer's Group Night

We hide from
the not knowing,
hoping this time
will be
different.
He'll take us to a
movie
or
the playground.

Still,
we hide from
the possibility
of his anger,
that oozes
like red
Georgia
mud,

sparked by
something,
anything,
someone,
anyone-
as he makes his way
home.

So, we hide under
the covers
feigning sleep,
or in the closet
holding hands,
fingers clenched
together.

Don't breathe.
Don't sigh.
Not a whisper.
hearts tense
with the
not knowing.