Late

• Sarah Neale, Grade 10
• Short Story
• 2011

His heart kept in time with the pulsing rain that flooded the city. Rain water dribbled down his cheek, droplets clinging to his lashes and blurring his vision. Overwhelming emotions stewed at the pit of his heart as he scanned the scene he found himself in. The dull city was lit with twinkling lights, reflecting the dark sky above it, alight with pin-pricks of stars. The few clouds strewn across the sky hung low, clinging to the city beneath it. Glancing down at the picture in his hand, he crumpled it with a twitch of his fingers. It had helped him survive these last few months, almost as if his heart was feeding off it — his last ounces of strength encoded in the bit of film. Impatiently he had waited, hope and worry replacing the blood that had coursed through his veins. The smell of rain surrounded him, wrapping around the hapless figure drenched in the sky’s tears. The photo had helped him — that was for sure — but now he didn’t need it.
Because now they would meet.
He felt drawn to this spot, as if some invisible string had guided him there, tugging him to the place. He couldn’t explain it, but they had to meet here. Here felt right.
His hair was plastered against his forehead, and absently he wiped a dripping lock from his view, hope colouring his cheeks and alighting his eyes. Frantically, he gazed about him, looking for her familiar form on the deserted street.
Why isn’t she here yet? It’s late...
Something gnawed on the edges of his stomach, a feeling he couldn’t bring himself to identify. He had been forgotten again. Anger sparked inside of him and that spark quickly grew into a flame that devoured every inch of him, licking at his heart. He flung the picture across the street and it fluttered down beside the gutter, weighed down by rain. For a moment he stood there, letting the fury swell as rain slid down his skin. Suddenly he ran across to the picture, rescuing it from the wind that had threatened to drag it down the street, where it would swiftly disappear from his view. He shoved the crumpled, dripping thing back into his pocket, selfish guilt tainting his mind. He sighed, shivering against the bitter rain that battered against him. With a shrug he continued down the street, watching the lights dance in the rain. Head hung low, he watched his feet dumbly.
He knew what would happen next; he would wallow in self-pity and anger that trumped all he did, until the phone would ring. Her laughter echoed in his mind as he plodded along. The mere thought of hearing her destroyed his hurt — but he knew it would happen. Then they would arrange again, and once more he would be forgotten.
Fractured thoughts skittered through his mind, broken by pain.
“Why must I love and hate her, when she feels nothing for me?”
The street answered in silence.