Pitter…Patter…
A noise that was so familiar to her ears.
She’s grown to hate it, but maybe hated her first; the cries and screams from the version of her that coward beneath it is, the wails and weeps that was muted by its annoyed splashes onto her face, then onto the ground beneath her, that was so unstable – not by nature by nurture.
Maybe it hated that the child that was born in its presence, grew to hate the one thing that was always there for her in her darkest moments.
The rain.
Pitter. Patter.
She’s grown to hate the harsh sound of it all. The way it slapped and punched against her, scornfully leaving fragment of the confidence she grew and reminding her of her place in society. Branding her with her past, reminding her of the torment that is yet to come.
The torment that it will always be there to see, as the audience – the critic.
Always there to peer down at her during the most thrilling moments: the family deaths, the beatings, the cries. Life.
“How could anyone find solace in this?“, she so often pondered underneath her breath like a nihilistic drunkard. Yet, there is someone who finds euphoria in the rainfall. Funnily enough, he clearly resembles the sun, and compared to him she’s no longer a clear sky– she’s thunder.
Yet they do not intertwine to create something greater than just sunlight – a rainbow. like the sun to a glass, they simply refract.
So what happened on That Rainy Wednesday?