Rain

• Olivia Arkell, Grade 9
• Short Story
• 2011

Some people hate the rain. The feeling that jolts through them as the first drop lands on the back of their neck, like a little splinter of ice. The way it drenches them until they’re numb and soaked. And the way it drains the world of colour, swirling the day away, to be replaced by the dark of night.

*

“Hey,” I smile “How are you?”

You force a smile back at me, for a second, and then look away.”I’m good.” You say, but I can see in your eyes that you’re not. I look at you, the gash that’s running like a river down your cheek, the little scar above your eyebrow. Your left hand, wrapped in cotton bandage, attached to a scabbed arm, and your leg, raw and red from your knee to your ankle. But your eyes draw me back, so filled with grief and regret that I can’t look away.

“No, really.” I say. “How are you?”
You hold my gaze this time, looking right into my eyes with your beautiful brown ones. I watch as tears form in the corners of them, tiny pools of sorrow about to flow out of their overflowing cages. I can almost hear you as you will yourself not to cry, as you tell yourself you’re stronger than that. “Honey,” I almost whisper, “it’s okay.” You just shake your head and lean into me as I feel you go limp in my arms. We stay like that, silently holding each other, a snapshot in time that I’m afraid to break.

Then, slowly, you speak. “I. Am in hell.” You say, slowly, forcing each word out. You stop and swallow. “Every time I shut my eyes I…I can see it all.” You take a deep, rasping breath. “I can see Robbie reaching out to switch the radio. I can see myself as I turn to switch it back. And do I turn back to look at the road? Do I look at the freaking stop sign as I drive past it? Do-“ Your voice, cracking as you spoke, broke under the burden of the emotion it was carrying. You turn away from me, your head in your hands, your body hunched, broken. I move to face you, gently pulling your hands away and looking into your eyes.

“You couldn’t have known.” I whisper. My voice tears with the pain I’m feeling for you.

“He died.” You say it with so much force, so softly. “Because of me.” I don’t know what to say. What do you say? You were driving. It wasn’t your fault. But you were driving. You’d always know that. “It should’ve been me.” You say, so soft I’m not even sure I heard it.

“That’s not true. I need you. I need you so much. It couldn’t have been you.” I reach for your hands and hold them tight. You look at me, silent as the sky cracks and splinters outside our little world, releasing a sheet of rain. You stand up slowly and open the door, walk outside.

Some people hate the rain. The feeling that jolts through them as the first drop lands on the back of their neck, like a little splinter of ice. The way it drenches them until they’re numb and soaked. And the way it drains the world of colour, swirling the day away, to be replaced by the dark of night.

But not you. I watched through the window as you stood on the glistening grass and your eyes slowly closed; as you let your tears flow. Because you knew, that once the rain cleared, today would be gone. The world would be fresh and alive, a clean slate. Ready to start anew.