Rain

• Naomi Armstrong, Grade 9
• Short Story
• 2008

Memories take a lifetime to create. For some, these memories take the form of photographs. The old glance wistfully at their once youthful faces, remembering a passion that they had once felt. Others glance wistfully at empty rooms and dusty clothes. These people, young and old long for their pasts. But some long to forget. Memories, no matter how happy, can always be deluded by the tears shed over a sad one. And so there comes a time when we cannot even say that these memories are still valid. Happy or not, memories are as fragile as life itself. Yes, memories take a lifetime to create; yet in a single second that aching sadness can disappear. In a single second, you can forget.
Her past was always a little fuzzy, so it was almost fitting that she eventually forgot. All of her past and all of her future stood before her, reflected in the rebellious mirror. She had golden blonde hair that fell to her shoulders. It hung there, straight and passive. She wore a pink silk nightgown, laced with black thread. Her body was stick thin and without curves. Her face was circular and pale, graced with two large, green eyes, thin blue lips and a small nose. She always seemed so pale, that one might think she was suffocating, but her radiant hair was most likely at fault for this. She couldn’t tell whether it was a natural blonde or not. She didn’t know who to ask about this, or even who she was.
She had awoken on that sunny morning, on the floor of an apartment she was almost positive wasn’t hers. The polished floorboards on which she had lain were immaculately clean. She supposed she was in a bedroom, but it seemed more like a guestroom. There were no photos of smiling couples, no hairbrushes full of someone’s youth, no baskets full of dirty, much-loved clothes, no crumpled sheets: absolutely no sign of life having been lived. The sun shone through the beige curtains defiantly, coming to a stop at the spotless, black desk. On the desk lay a small Compaq laptop. It was singing a buzzing song, an appealing invitation. She stood from where she had sat on the white quilted double bed and walked towards the singing laptop. Her walk was one of uncertainty. She didn’t know if she should strut with pride, or maybe step in long, graceful, posh strides, or even in short, petite, girly ones. And so she stumbled.
The arduous task of walking was to no avail. The laptop required a username and password. How could words allow someone access to her memories, when she, the rightful owner of these memories was not? She was a writer, always unable to read the writing, the singer, always unable to hear the song, the lover, always unable to feel the love. She was in a dazed state. Without a past, how could there ever be a future? It was with those thoughts that she sunk to the ground. It was with those thoughts that the nameless writer, singer, lover sunk to the ground.
Asleep on the floor, she had no dreams. The time between closing her eyes at dawn, and opening them at nighttime, was a black, lifeless scene. She saw no faces, heard no voices, felt no pain. For the 9 hours, 28 minutes and 47 seconds that she was sleeping for, she was devoid of emotion. And that was good enough.
The sun hung in the sky for a few hours, before beginning its decent. It was around sunset, when the birds began their nightly singing. It began to rain, softly at first, but soon it began to pelt down on the ungrateful world. It pelted so hard; that it caused the nameless, dreamless one to awaken.
The rain continued to sing its rainy song, and she, suddenly 11 years old again, fell to her knees screaming. It was out of pure instinct that she did this, pure instinct from a past life maybe. Or it could’ve easily been the stark, sad, confinement of the rain. But maybe, just maybe, she suddenly remembered such a time from her past. Maybe she smelled blood.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sarah was a small, timid girl, who stared at her feet. Her almost-extinct, rare smile was always preceded by a shy glance that subconsciously sought permission to smile: permission to be happy. This girl always had to seek permission for things. She was a caged animal. Her mouth always said what they wanted her to say, but inside, Sarah always screamed the truth. The despair. In the middle of the night, with the white quilt over her head, she said her words. She whispered her words. The despair. Her existence was a desolate one, with the simple purpose of simply existing. But she didn’t say so. She just existed.
Sarah’s mother never seemed to really care until it happened. Her almost-extinct, rare words were always preceded by the swigs she took from her ever-present bottle of bourbon. Sarah had never been able to know the warm, loving woman that Sherry used to be. She had grown up believing that all mothers didn’t care. Sherry had short, curly, dark hair that bounced just under her ears. Her silver eyes always seemed faded and distant, as if life was slowly leaving them. She wore prim and proper dresses. The ones that were stained with bourbon were thrown out, and Sherry readily welcomed new ones into her life. Her curvy waist was thickened with all the food she ate to muffle the voice of her unhappiness. Her face was heavily freckled, as if they were the only remaining proof that there had been good times. As if there had been a time when the sun had shone down on Sherry’s face, and she had welcomed it. Her existence was also a desolate one, with the simple purpose of simply drinking. But she didn’t say so. She just drank.
Sarah’s father cared too much. His daughter was clay that he shaped with his rough hands. Her life was his to own and manipulate. When he walked, he walked as a confident man. His leather shoes would pound on the ground and his cold black eyes would stare haughtily ahead of him. His shaved head was always prickly with the promise of black hair, as was his chin. He never failed to wear elaborate, tailored suits, as if he thought this would remind the flawed beings of his unquestionable superiority. James never smiled. His long face was always grim, as though smiling would make him seem more human. But in the eyes of his wife and daughter, he wasn’t human. He was a monster.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She woke up in hospital. Sarah woke up in hospital. She was in a white room, lying in a white bed, covered in white linen. In the flawlessly white room, a white doctor, who wore a white coat, watched the blue, flawed figure slowly realise where she was. In a soothing, deep voice, the brown haired, brown-eyed Dr. Matthews said, “Good morning miss. Did you sleep well?”
“W-w-where am I?” She asked, wide eyed. She found it hard to speak.
“Alfred Hospital.” He smiled knowingly. “Do you remember what happened?”
“No.” She said, while thinking, the only thing I can remember is not remembering.
“Miss, you were found screaming in your sleep in an apartment on St Kilda Road, and we brought you here immediately.” He flipped the little notebook he held a few times before scanning the page with efficient eyes. “A man by the name of James McDaniel came by a few hours ago claiming that you were his daughter. Is this the truth?”
“Uh yes.” Suddenly a gateway to her past had appeared. Someone wielding the key had come to see her. The key! Someone with the username and password to unlock her past. Someone who might’ve at some stage, been dear to her. James McDaniel.
A few hours following the brief conversation she’d had with Dr. Matthews, her father suddenly appeared, like the horror in a horror movie. He had aged terribly. His eyes sagged. His once black head was now bald, and his lips drooped as if he were comically sad. He had permanent frown marks between his brows and his growing set of chins bulged. His tailored suit was as immaculate as ever, but that didn’t mean he was any less flawed. Instinctively Sarah began to tremble with fear. He approached her slowly and uncharacteristically wide eyed, he smirked, “Found you.”
Sarah started hyperventilating. The machine attached to Sarah started beeping wildly and the nurses rushed in. They ushered the bad man out of the room. And he went, taking pleasure in her evident fear. As he exited the room he turned to her and mouthed the words, “I’ll be back.”
With nurses hurriedly attaching an oxygen mask to her mouth, Sarah slowly drifted off into unconsciousness. This man had not been dear to her and never would be. “Found you.” “Found you.” “Found you.” His words echoed in her usually dreamless mind. Why was he looking for her? As soon as she had asked herself that question, it was answered.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sarah’s older brother fit into the family, like a lion fits in a group of lambs. At 13, he was taller, stronger and smarter than her. James delighted in this. He favoured Christopher over his daughter and even his wife. James answered to his every beck and call and showed no shame. When on the streets, people they knew would approach them and remark that they were the perfect family. James would nod his head superiorly and proud as ever, go on to recall each and every single thing Christopher had succeeded in: his triumphs on the football field, the latest A+, all the 100%s on tests. He was flawless. Not like Sarah. His black hair was as messy as any teenage boy’s. That, along with his shining black eyes, made him look like a younger version of his father. He bore close to no resemblance to his sister and mother. He truly was his father’s son.
James had always known that Sarah wasn’t his. It was as obvious as the green of her eyes. As soon as Sarah’s life began, so did the beatings. Sherry was silent, but proud. Silent about the beatings. Silent about the despair. Proud that she’d had her freckled past. Proud that she’d had her three years with Jack. James never hit Sarah until it happened. But the cold, indifference that she was treated with was worse than the bruises she saw Sherry powder each morning. It would’ve been much better than feeling like she had no place in the world, better than believing her life to be worthless.
Sarah was nearly 12 when it happened. Day after day she endured Chris. Inside of her a rage festered and grew. Her usual dreamlessness became twisted fantasies. Nighttime became darker than ever. When the sun grew tired of Earth at the end of the day, and abandoned it, darkness ruled in the eyes of the world and in the heart of Sarah. She imagined creeping up behind him, wielding a knife. She’d do away with him. Forever. Perpetually. Eternally. Everlastingly. Gone. Until one day, her dreams became reality. The thin line between truth and lies blurred, and for once, she was in power, she was on top of him, laughing as she slit his throat.
James had walked in on them like that: the flawed being covered in the blood of the flawless being. Her eyes were wild and on her lips she had a smile. She smiled a crazed smile that wasn’t preceded by any shy glance. She did not seek permission on this day. On this day she demanded it.
James had run towards her, grabbing the knife out of her hands rather than grabbing his son. First he kicked her in the gut. She smiled. He broke her nose with his fist. She laughed. And so he came at her with the knife.
It was at this moment that Sherry stumbled into the room, bourbon in one hand, and fear in the other. Surprising James, but Sarah most of all, she yelled some drunken gibberish and ran at him. As if all her life had been leading up to this one act of defiance, she kicked him in the groin and grasped the knife in one freckled hand.
Finally seeing her one and only chance to escape, Sarah ran. She staggered as quickly as her un-athletic legs would allow. She didn’t turn back to see the knife slice through her mother’s heart. She didn’t turn back to see the life finally leave her mother’s silver eyes. Like a crab deserting its shell when it was no longer of use, life slid out of the shell that was named Sherry. And in death she saved the one thing she had ever truly loved. Like the parrot she had bought Sarah on her ninth birthday, she spread her wings, and she flew away. Free at last, she soared. Free at last, she felt the wind in her wings. In that single second, she forgot the struggle that was life.
Sarah managed to escape on that day. It was amazing that she had. The rain that pelted down on her tired back, like death itself, had pelted down on the backs of nearly all of her family. Death doesn’t discriminate. Like the rain, its power can fall onto almost anyone. Anyone can give it and anyone can take it. Unless we seek shelter, it falls on us. And we become drenched in the rain of death. It will never dry.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When James McDaniel came back later that day, Sarah was ready for him. Next to her bed there was a draw full of syringes. She took one without hesitation. When he entered her room, she fondled it gently in her hand, hidden under the now flawed white linen. He came towards her with the same knife from 10 years ago, its blade as shiny as ever. But she was too quick for him. She plunged the syringe into his neck. It was full of oxygen, which, as her two years studying at medical school had taught her, can cause an air embolus. She injected it into an artery, therefore, causing the blood flow to stop. And so the man who was not dear to her had a heart attack.
As she had been doing for most of her life, she acted. She let out a scream of terror, when all she felt inside was that same satisfaction from 10 years ago. Nurses rushed into the room to find old James McDaniel lying there. The knife and syringe were stashed away inconspicuously in the cupboard. They just assumed, due to his age, it was a heart attack of a natural cause. Surely seeing his beloved daughter in such a state would be enough to trigger it. Surely.
Sarah felt no remorse. Dying is a natural thing. We are born and so we must die. The sun rises and so it must fall. Each thing must come to an end. Having actually being the one to end a life, Sarah became a murder. But still, she felt no remorse. She lay in the midst of flawless things. She lay in a white room, in a white bed, covered with white linen. And those who peered through the window on the door saw the flawed being that lay there, never of course, knowing exactly how flawed she was.
In the morning she left the hospital. In the years to come she became a doctor, got married, had kids. The tears she had shed in the past deluded her memories. With time she knew that they were no longer truly valid and with time, she convinced herself that they were complete lies. Her sad, invalid memories were fragile, and just like last time, she eventually forgot. And so each night as she went to sleep she dreamed of the same dark nothingness, and suffered no emotions. But without a past, there can be no future.
When it rained, she always knew. When she heard the pitter-patter of rain on the roof, she smelled blood and she just knew. The smell of blood had buried itself in her mind, and like a ghost, it came out to haunt her. She never forgot it. Nobody can. So she spent the rest of her life running from the rain. The clouds would form overhead and chase her, it’d chase her like her brother used to, like her father used to, like the despair used to. Like the despair still did. Until one day, it caught up. And in death, she forgot all.