The very day that Robinson became evil was the day that he ran away from home. The summer of ‘84 was when the deep, quiet started, and never stopped.  It lived inside the white, tender of a blue-eyed doll that given to Robinson as a present.  Robinson had a Cupid’s arrow through his heart, and his grandmother was too scared to touch him.  She thought that a doll provided a world of cotton candy, castles in the sky, and blond curls.  The doll was named June, was placed on a pedestal, inside a black etergier.

There in the center of silence, was a neighborhood, not unlike the rest of the world.  Imagine in that neighborhood a road of fresh summer flowers that by midday gave out a peaceful feeling.  In front of his grandmother’s house, was a big ash tree, wooden and full of surprises, some made up, and others not entirely  The clear and lonely beauty of the sky did not cover up its magic that day.  Near a patch of begonias, a hollow place at the trunk’s center where Robinson played with June the doll, until his mother decided that one day, the doll did not just belong to the little boy, but belonged to the world.

After a time of slight boredom, the display of yellow teeth to a lonely dog across the street had started everything.  The dog’s underbelly revealed a fawn color and uncertainty of yesterday’s meal.  He lived with another family across the street from Robinson’s grandmother.  Without the mind of compassion or reason from his owners, day in and day out, the dog was left alone in an unfeeling home.  The dog was content sometimes to chew on hard, turkey bones. However, before the dog died that night, there was nothing more satisfying than the taste of white rabbits. 

The sun refused to sink the two of them, their need for adventure, and their slight annoyance at the uncomfortably sticky summer weather.  Robinson’s mother, Joan, had come out, brought him a bottle of pure, unfiltered water with two fat ice cubes mashed together at the bottom of the drink.  Joan’s ability to complicate her young son’s life with the damned configurations of science never ceased to amaze him.  Even at the age of ten years old, he still wet his pants when he thought about his mother’s long, slender fingers touching his ice-cubed drink, the dog’s grimy head, and later on, his privates when she used to give him his nightly bath.