Skeletons in the Rain

CHAPTER 32 | 6 YEARS AGO

What his stepfather had just said filled him with dread.

Had Marcelo done something so wrong already that he deserved to spend an hour in the Dark Place? Think, think! The boy told himself in a loop of desperation while everything that would happen played out his mind's eye: Emilia leaving them alone, Anibal dragging him to the underground water tank, closing the heavy hatch with a loud clunk. And then... echoes in the black. The sound of splashes against the slimy walls as Marcelo stood on tiptoe, moving his arms back and forth to keep his head above the cold, musty, liquid darkness.

And after a while, everything will fade: the stench that makes me cough, the weight of my wet clothes, and I'll become a broken compass, unable to tell where anything is anymore.

"Ofelia is waiting for m-me," Marcelo heard himself saying. "We have a test tomorrow."

"Can't you study here?" his mother asked him from the garage doorway.

Anibal waved off his protest. "Enough with the books. It's about time you get a little grease on your hands. Let's fix this washing machine."

"No!"

"Do not talk back at him!" Emilia shook her finger at Marcelo in reprimand.

"I don't understand p-polynomial functions."

"I'll help you," said his stepdad. "You give me a hand here, and we'll do your homework together."

"But, mom." Marcelo's pleading eyes were on the verge of tears. "You know Ofelia is the best in the class and—"

"Are you saying the girl is smarter than me?" Anibal asked.

Trying for composure, the boy did not dare to speak. Any response could be the spark that set his stepfather's anger ablaze.

"He didn't mean that, dear," Emilia said.

"Dunno, baby. It seems he thinks that weirdo is better than me."

"No, honey. It's not like that."

"Am I imagining things then?" he scoffed, leaning against the top-loader washing machine. He pulled his old baseball bat from inside the drum. "Or have I gone cuckoo?"

"No, of course not." Emilia's voice was about to break.

With a look of anger and disappointment, Anibal turned to his stepson. "Guess I'm lying then. Am I a liar?"

Marcelo stepped back, fear looming over him. This wasn't good.

"No, s-sir."

"Speak up, child!" "

"No!"

"Then what am I?"

"The man of the house," replied Emilia in her son's stead.

"You're damn right I am. That's why the boy is not studying no bullshit. He will help me fix the washing machine." He smiled a little at his stepson. "Time to grow up, kid."

"B-but..."

"Stop stuttering and go get the toolbox by the washboard."

Not daring to sob aloud, Marcelo nodded, tears in his throat. If he cried, his stepdad would not hesitate to teach him a lesson about whining like a baby and drag him to the Dark Place at once.

"What are you still doing here, woman?" his stepfather shouted to Emilia. "I'm about to smoke my fingers here."

"Yes, dear," she mumbled before hurrying out the garage door.

The toolbox that had once been black, and was now a rusty gray, felt heavy in Marcelo's hands; heavier than ever before. Heavier than anything in the world, for it contained everything he hated about this man: his weapons of destruction. His stepfather had said they would fix the washing machine, but that was a lie. He tore machinery apart and sold it for scraps. Unlike Marcelo who loved bringing broken wristwatches back to life, Anibal was a vulture festering on the carcasses of household appliances.