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INFORMATION

Someone speaks softly through the horror and pain:
'Love has gone, but it could come again.'
Spring arrives quietly, warming her skin
Her heart, now red, is beating again
- Hannah Fury, 'Someone Speaks Softly'

Not a writer but a professional student. Instead I can be the jaded passer-by that caught a glimpse of a fling or a fatal mistake, a murder in the back alley, and I keep it all to myself so I don't lose any of it during the spilling from heart to paper on an unimaginary dark night. I write opinions, facts, emotions and other satisfied sentences that are the offspring of my imagination and external influences. And I do not need your validation to live, for the record.

CONTACT

FS/augustkills
FP/thepapercult
LJ/snipethedoctor
WP/electricsleeves

CREDITS

Icon: DW/tablesaw
Layout: tuesdaynight
Inspiration: DayBefore!Misery
The rain at 5pm.
Written on: Friday, January 8, 2010
Time: 8:17 PM

-To the lonely people of this world.

Five p.m. found her slight form lounging comfortably in the center of a tattered armchair, drawing her knees close to her chest in a fetal position, her thin arms encircling her bony knees. Her eyes to the ceiling like a saint looking towards heaven. She felt warmth emanating from the cushion she was seated on, warmth her frail body gave to the lifeless cotton. Yet it returned that warmth to her chilling legs. So giving, so giving.

The smell of rain was delicious, a faint hint of grass lingered in the air, a nostalgic reminder of the days she used to pick flowers off their brittle stems. (Mama had chided her then. “Flowers have lives,” She used to say.) Rain spoke to her of freshness, of newness; spoke of recreation, of putting life back into order. It made cracked, dry soil whole. It placed droplets of beauty of leaves and flowers. When the clouds parted and the sun came out of hiding again, they would sparkle like jewels. She knew.

Watching from her station in the recess of the neglected chair, the rain continued to pour. The lightning that split the sky, thunder following closely behind. She winced as thunder boomed: its voice resonated greater than any lion’s roar. Rainy days were never silent. She often wondered why; the raindrops trickling off the trees—doesn’t that deserve the attention of the gods? Pretty they were. The whole world should calm down-no cars with their nasty fumes, no agony of loud, shrill voices-and listen to songs the storm had to sing. (It sang to her often.) But she was in no position to dictate: she was only a simple little girl. Her mother said so.

She needed quiet. All this noise made her head feel funny—what she wanted to say, what she could feel had all jumbled together and churned round and round, like the garments did when Mother tossed them into the laundry and turned it on: round and round, making her dizzy. She sat still, concentrated on nothing but the curtain of crystal droplets outside the window. Be still, be still. Focused on the tense muscles in the body. Feeling, searching, willing for them to stay put. Breathing deep, even breaths. In, out. In, out. Get rid of the tension. Concentrating so hard every limb stilled. The evening air made her want to shiver, but she wanted to be in stillness. Her mind and body battled for control. Body lost, as always. She shuddered inwardly. So cold it was.

She cracked a smile.

Unknowingly, the storm had begun clearing. The noise of loud and boisterous Thunder sounded further and further away. Yet it continued to emit noises, as if reluctant to leave. No lightning now, to startle her. It had disappeared with Thunder-

The steady drip-drip of rain reached her ears. Drip, drip, drip. The renewal of earth was nearing its completion.

With the ebbing storm, the magic was disappearing. She wanted it so badly, to come back. How many days have passed since she felt this way—the fulfillment of buried yearning of companionship? It would go away, like Mother who loved her, like Father who loathed her, like her sisters, who pushed her roughly away. No, it could stay here, with her in the house. The house had so much space, and one solitary occupant. It could remain with her, lull her to sleep with the song of rain and impending disaster.

She slid off her comfortable position, shuddering a little as the warm soles of her feet met cold marble floor. She had to do something. Make herself remembered.

Arms spread out like angels’ wings, fingers splayed to mimic feathers. Racing towards the window. Ebony hair fanning out, dirt-smudged gray frock billowing behind her like a big ball gown. Tiptoed. Run and run and run. Go to the window.

Her arms swung out in front of her, shielding her ribs from contact with the faded white wall. Frozen in motion, still on her toes, bearing resemblance to a withered faerie. Only for the moment, though.

She waited, waited.

Any time now.

There it comes!

Stuck her head out, pink tongue protruding within her mouth and caught the taste of rain.

A lovely crystal clear droplet. She couldn’t see it, but she knew. She swallowed it swiftly, before it blended with the other liquid in her mouth. (Saliva, she recalled.)

She looked down from her position at the window at the dull concrete pavement. Watched raindrops fall in parallel lines and shatter on the stony surface.

She looked up. The sky was white, like her cotton dress-before it got dirty. She could make out little patches of blue, scattered haphazardly across the sky. Was it playing a jigsaw puzzle game with her? She hoped the sky found all the pieces soon.

It did. The storm was getting ready to depart, to travel to another place, to let someone else on the other side of the world to admire and sigh and taste the rain, like she did. Then there was only blueness left.

With the last of its raindrops, the storm was saying goodbye.

This time, she waved.

FIN

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