by: berf

Sometimes, you do get what you want. But then, did you really want it?

I did.




Rain is a symbol for purity, purification. It is interpreted as something that cleanses and renews, bringing out the bad and allowing room for the good.

It was raining that evening. It was late summer and the sky had turned a dusky purple color. The last vestiges of sun could hardly be seen behind shadows of the trees. The colors of the street facing me were muted with the changing light. A soft glow came from neighboring windows.

I stared out of the window at my front lawn, waiting. I knelt on our faded floral sofa, my elbows resting on the back of it and my chin resting in my palms. My expression was dull, my green eyes devoid of the life that normally lit them. My freckles stood out prominently from my paled skin. Pale, despite the sun's rays I had spent many days in. I stared outside with concentration. The kettle whistled faintly; a faraway door slammed. Still my gaze was not broken.

My eyes did not waver.

They did not waver when I heard the voices, too far away to make out the actual words. A question, with an upward intonation. A sharp retort. A controlled response. Bickering back and forth. Finally, a crescendo.

Stomping, slamming, a crash. I sat unmoving. A broken yell. A threat. A mocking laugh. A cold sentence uttered too softly. A shocked silence. I felt the room grow colder, despite the heat of the August night. The sweat down my back chilled me, but I did not react. I stared dully into the yard. My nerves were taut ; my muscles clenched, my legs cramped. Just a little longer. The end was almost here. I could feel it coming – the air tingled.

Finally, the distant sound of another door. This one was closed with a sharp and quiet precision. Creaking stairs, descended slowly. A soft thud, and another. The rustling of fabric. The closing of the closet door. A hesitation. A quiet inquiry. A long, long pause. A phrase quietly spit with venom.

Crack. That sound was inaudible, but it was as if it had been blast through my ears and straight from my brain to my hand twitched.

The rain pittered on the glass of the window and on the sill. A pivot. The slow click of shoes on the tile. The final opening of a door. The soft pittering now became louder and more defined. The jangle of keys. The creak of the door and finally the click of closure.

I watch listlessly as the faded red sedan's door opened and the silhouette of a familiar man in a suit and hat carefully placed the brown suitcases in the backseat, heedless of the rain starting to soak through his clothes. Soon he moved into the front seat, and slowly set to starting up the car. Check the mirrors, adjust the seat, belt buckle, keys in the ignition. The engine gently hummed and gravel crunched as the car pulled away for the last time.

My muscles tensed slightly as I waited for it, my last seconds of anticipation a pure agony – and then it came in a swoosh, a tidal wave washing through my body and leaving my hands more steady and my heart calm.

A small smile lit my lips, as the thunder growled.