Robert slammed the door behind himself attempting to keep everything bad in the world out. He went and laid down on his bed, still shaken up about the mugging he witnessed just minutes before. He didn't understand why he was so disturbed by what he saw. He just laid there in his bed waiting to fall asleep, hoping to fall asleep; and eventually, he did.

Robert woke up almost three hours later in a cold sweat and his heart pounding. He sat up and put his head in his hands. He dreamed about his mother, about her death. He remembered every gruesome detail, from the blood pooling around his feet and how he could barely recognize. He couldn't do anything but think about that night:

The night was shockingly still; it was summer and Robert didn't have school. The air was cool and not humid though Robert had started to shiver from the cool air on the sweat that now covered nearly his entire body. His mother kept yelling at him to either run or hide, often switching between the two words. When they ran, they ran fast, and when they hid, they were behind anything they could find that would cover their entire beings as the red pick-up truck would drive by, searching for them. It would stop everyone once in a while and the driver would get out and call out for them in a slurred, mocking tone. But always to no avail and would climb back in the car and drive away to come back by them minutes later. They were almost to the police station which is where Robert's mother was taking them. "We've got to get there," she kept saying, "I've got to make sure you're safe." They kept running for an hour but to 6 year-old Robert, it seemed like it lasted all night. Then finally, he saw it. The station was in sight and they picked up their pace, him running just as fast as his short legs could take him with his mother hobbling on just behind him. Then Robert noticed the shadow in front of him. The long shadow from the headlights not far behind him. He watched his mother's face  turn from hope to hopelessness in a matter of seconds. He stopped in his place as his mother continued to limp over to him.

"Run," she said, "Get to the police station, stay safe!"

"Janet!" said the driver of the car in a slurred, obviously drunken rage, "Where ya' goin' Janet?"

"We're getting away from you Rob."

"You're not going anywhere!" He shouted, outraged by the words his wife said to him. Rob stabbed her in the stomach with the bowie knife he kept under the seat of his truck. "You're not going anywhere but straight to hell, ya stupid bitch." And he turned toward's Robert, closing the gap between him and his namesake.

"Robert! Run! Go get help!" His mother shouted. "Run!"

But Robert couldn't move.

"It wasn't my fault Robert" his father said as he placed a kiss on his forehead. Then he got back in the truck and drove off, and Robert never heard from him again.

Robert ran over to his dying mother and stood above her. She reached her hand up to his and they held each others hands until she let go. Not because she wanted to, but because she didn't have the strength to hold her hand up any longer. "I love you Robert, and you're nothing like you're father; you're not Rob."

Robert woke up quite slowly, even for Robert. His head pounded, not like a normal headache but rather like he was physically pounding on his own skull. He managed to get to his feet but didn't trust his legs and instead chose to lean against the tree he had woken up under. He didn't know exactly how he got there, he remembered taking his pain meds before he left work and then nothing. He looked around observing his environment; the asphalt, lines, and hoops allowed him to quickly decipher he was at the basketball court. Not far from his house, he decided he would try and walk, one foot forward, then the other; try not to trip, try to stay strong and not collapse. That's where he wasn't so good. He collapsed and realized moving was an exercise in futility and stuffed his hand in his pocket for his phone. After fishing around for a minute, checking all his pockets, he came up empty handed. He picked himself up and scooted over to the tree.

He couldn't believe what was happening, he couldn't go anywhere, couldn't call for help, and no one was in sight to help out. Just then, a figure appeared, walking on the sidewalk across the court, then another. They were getting closer and Robert knew in the bottom of his stomach that something wasn't right. He called out to the figure walking ahead of the other but nothing came out of his mouth. He tried again but nothing. He could feel the dry air rolling over his vocal chords but they refused to move. He watched in helpless horror as the second figure grabbed the bag of the first. He could only watch as a weapon was pulled; the first figure put their hands in the air, forgetting about the bag. And the second figure ran.

All of a sudden, Robert's ears started ringing. He could hear the birds chirping and the wind blowing across the grass in the field behind the tree on which he leaned. It hadn;t even crossed his mind that he couldn't hear. Nevertheless, he stood up without realizing and bolted. He didn't want to be anywhere near the victim across the blacktop. It made him sick to his stomach seeing another person stripped of their outer walls of protection, becoming naught but a hollow shell of a human being. Vulnerability: the one thing Robert couldn't stand to see in anyone, particularly himself.