Le Rêve Dying

• Stephen Poulter, Grade 10
• Short Story
• 2015

Rain splashes onto the concrete, a flood of water surges through the gutter beside me, drowning the litter in a tsunami of muddied tears. The once warm inside of my jacket is now damp with dew, the black leather sleeves coated in a watery sludge. Such a strange thing; rainwater. There it sits, high and huddled in the warm wool of the skies until it’s thrown out of the heavens and forced to die…
The streets are empty now, even the cars have stopped driving past to spray me with water.
I’m as lonely as a sinner in Church.
I avoid the cracks in the path, hoping to evade the ensuing bad luck. I’ve had more than enough of that. A single drop of rain lands on the top of my head, travelling through my forests of oleaginous hair and down the curve of my forehead like an avalanche down a mountain. The droplet slips down my nose, falling off the bridge and finally resting in the corner of my eye. It spreads like wildfire across my iris, poisoning my view with its blurry venom. I blink and the water is pushed out into the barren desert of wrinkled skin beneath. I wipe the droplet from cheek, only dampening my face further.
Utterly pointless…
The wind breathes against my moist face, the air solidifying as one cool mass upon the skin. Ignoring its effects, I push through the cold.
It’ll feel better…
I turn a corner, facing another street with another cracked pavement and another flooded gutter. The same as before. Or worse. I hesitate, my legs and arms feeling as directionless as a marionette with its strings sliced.
Go home…
The appointment can wait…
No, I need this…
My hands slide into my pockets and caress the dry fabric inside. The cold fibers grasp at my fingertips, reaching for them like the outstretched arms of a dying plant towards the sun. A plant is such a strange thing. It feeds off the sky, absorbing the very light around it to survive. A plant takes only what it needs, forgetting the unnecessary. Perhaps a plant and everyone else aren’t so different.
A radiant woman wearing a glittering silver dress walks beside a man in a suit. He holds an umbrella above their heads, shielding them from the rain. Another odd thing. A device specifically made for when times are not pleasant. It’s as though we accept that things will never be perfect.
The man glances at me while he whispers something into the woman’s ear as they pass. She laughs as her glittering dress sways like a dream in the twilight.
This is why I do it…
I stop walking, standing in front my appointment. I push through its inviting doors and enter the office of my counselor. I stride past the pinball machine and sit down on one of the wooden stools at the front desk. The bartender passes me my therapist, my counselor, my drink.