Not So Great Evening

           On her bed, all of a sudden, she began to feel like she needed to escape. 

So she did.

           It was a cloudy evening and the pavement grew tiny dark flowers by the occasional sprinkle of rain. A petal here, a petal there, and soon, the pavement was but a meadow. The wind was picking up as if it was getting angry that it couldn’t enter the concrete. She felt it on her skin like cold tickling.

She looked about. Her legs itched, demanded movement. She had to walk. She had to go. She had to get somewhere. The purpose of it all was unclear to her, but she knew she must walk. Where? It didn’t matter, really. So she started walking down the well-known road she had always walked.

           Her eyes were pinned on the sky where white, grey, and black clouds clashed in pattern-less flow like ghosts of ancient gods. It was like watching a war, fought over centuries, play out in front of her very own eyes within a span of a few minutes. She didn’t mind her surroundings, what or who she passed. Her mind was elsewhere--up above--as always. But her legs carried her. They knew exactly where. To the lake on the far end of her town. She liked going there. Everybody liked going there. It was the beautiful nature escape the townies needed so often. Although, now, the heaviest, the darkest of clouds loomed above her destination. To confirm her concerns, raindrops began to occur more often. They were tiny but cold on her skin. She put on her hood and didn’t stop walking. It was no heavy rainfall, although she was heading right into a possible epicentre of one. That, however, seemed negligible. As always.

           As she was getting closer and closer to the lake, more people passed her, all going the opposite direction to hers. She didn’t care about them. She had to walk and that was all that mattered. No longer able to look up because of the amplifying rain, her gaze dropped down, on the pavement growing dark and on the figures passing her. When she looked them in their eyes, she couldn’t recognize anything. Soon, they started to melt away--their noses just melted, lips and ears, too--until all the people were faceless. She frowned, squinting her eyes, and with her middle finger, she pressed her round golden glasses higher on her nose. It didn’t do much. At this point, the first thunder roared up ahead, and she was forced to open her umbrella. It was purple with small but not too small white dots. It was also broken.

           Is it insane of me to march into a storm? she wondered. Is it crazy? Stupid? It may be a bit irresponsible but I must walk, and where to, other than there? 

           Maybe some days one must walk in the rain with a broken umbrella, walk against the flow, marching to the storm. 

           She tried to prove herself she was being reasonable. That what she was doing wasn’t insane, crazy or stupid. More droplets fell on her skin like sharp needles of ice. She walked the road to the lake until all the faceless people were long gone and she wouldn’t meet any other soul. Now, the rain was so intense and the storm so loud, she couldn’t see or hear anything. She had walked most of the distance. The lake wasn’t that far. She nearly reached it.

           Should I…?

           And just like that, on a whim, she spun around on her heels, 180 degrees, and started walking right the opposite direction--away from the storm--as always. 

           I don’t need to get there, she told herself.

Still, she felt the same need to walk, if not twice as strong. But where to? Where does one go in the rain? 

Home?

Not yet. 

She recognized a few neon lights that lit up far ahead, and sticks of colours moving. The scenery was all blurry. She had never cared much for her eyesight or paid much attention to when it had gotten worse. Now, she cared. Since she had nowhere else to get to, anyway, she decided it was time to pay her eye doctor a visit. With a new purpose in mind, she once again lost attention to nameless what and faceless who that she was passing. As she always had.

When she got to the medical complex in the middle of the town, she felt uneasy. And at last, she felt stupid. It wasn’t like her to make mistakes. But the big black capital letters claimed otherwise. She couldn’t read anything else like the name of the doctor or the medical complex, the opening hours. The numbers and letters were all blurry. All but seven of them. The seven big black capital letters read TOO LATE. And they were right. It was a Saturday evening, and she hadn’t realized what she needed wouldn’t be around. She never had. 

Her legs, still itching for more, took a step, then a second one and then another one and then more steps to nowhere, and her eyes, yet again pinned on the sky, looked for the answer as to where to go next. She had left the dark storm behind, but it was quickly catching up. She still had to hold on to her broken purple umbrella tightly. Above and ahead of her, though, the clouds were fading from black to grey to white until they cracked on the western horizon. The sky there was turning bright pink and she thought to herself, there could be no better path to walk than the path to a colourful sunset. 

Heading west, wandering the streets, she willed herself to look straight ahead--not above, not below. Whoever she met along the way was short of a face. One moment, she thought she spotted her cousin, but neither he had eyes, a nose, lips. The blank figure was dressed the way she thought her cousin would dress, had similar hair, perhaps even the same walk. She forced her eyes to focus more, to recognize something. She couldn’t see, though, and a few seconds later her cheeks reddened--she was just a weirdo under a broken purple umbrella staring rather intensely at a random guy just passing her by. Her gaze dropped yet again on the pavement. She was feeling too ashamed to be looking up. As always.

Soon, she got to a street where she grew up. There stood her childhood home--in one of the blocks of flats. Her former flat was on the fifth floor, although it was marked as fourth in the elevator. A brief smile cracked her lips at the memory but she shook it off. Subconsciously, she counted the windows from the bottom up. One, two, three, four, five. 

The kitchen window was closed and the one in the kids’ room was open. Just as she remembered. She stopped. The rain was knocking on her purple umbrella and the sound was soothing, the droplets of water falling in front of her were a mere harmless distraction. Suddenly, she wanted to see her sister behind the window, arguing with her about closing it because it was too cold in the room. She wanted to see her mom looking out of the kitchen at the streets, smiling at the playful dogs and their equally playful owners, or at the children running about and playing in the ever-open outdoor area of the kindergarten. She wanted to go through the front door and bump into it with her hip because it was the only efficient way to close it, not using the key. Then she would say hello, look at her father, snoring in his armchair in front of the flashing TV lights, and run into her room to be mocked by her older siblings.

The wind picked up and hit her from the back so hard, she swung forward and nearly lost her balance. It was a wake-up call. In that flat five stories up no longer lived people she could’ve spoken to. Shivers ran up and down her spine, as she had to admit to herself it had always been this way. 

Her evening journey continued. She walked over a bridge above the nearly dried riverbed. Without the wild ducks she used to fed, it was strangely inane and quiet. She passed her favourite bakery, her all-in-one elementary, middle and high school, and the railroad. There was no need for an umbrella anymore, so she put it down and carried it swinging by her side. However, the grey clouds reached the western horizon and swallowed the colours like the forest hills swallowed the sun. It got dark very soon. For another brief moment, she stopped and looked at her left. A yellow, forlorn building stood there under a sick, weak light of one street lamp. Her fingers traced few coins in her pocket and she wondered if it would be enough to get her somewhere. The storm was moving away from the direction of the lake and into the town, although not as quickly as before. Maybe she could take the next train--the last one--to be closer to the lake and pick up where she had to leave off. 

Something caught her attention. A low hum of voices, compiling into a symphony. She didn’t recognize the melody and her curiosity drew her closer to a grey stone fence with trees popping up from behind it. She walked through the gate to see a busy hillside street. People were walking as peacefully as the first snowflake falls in winter. They climbed the stairs, up and down, crossing from her left to her right and vice versa all in slow and calm motion. The diva of that street was a tall building shaped like a pear, about in the middle of the hill. Stone stairs led to it from each side and on every step of the stairs stood people--still only faceless figures. They were quiescent, listening to what was being spoken inside the chapel. Sometimes they swung in the stronger breeze like shivering flowers, sometimes they all unanimously sang a tone or two, or more. They were talking, singing songs, but their words were unclear to her. She furrowed her brows and this movement squeezed her eyes so much, few tears got caught on her lashes. She wanted to march up, yell and scream at the people to speak the language she could recognize, to be more than blank beige muppets in dresses and coats. But she didn’t. She would interrupt something holy, something she wasn’t part of, and the figures would’ve gotten mad. She turned left, walking away from the calm, lovely atmosphere of unity. As she always had done. 

No more than ten steps into her next part of that dark evening’s journey, she willed herself to forget about the chapel and the faceless people. The grey sky, which was blackening every second, bestowed an early shadow of night upon the town. Quivering lights began to line her left and right, and windows of small grey houses lit up the dark pathway. Another strong push of wind brought droplets of rain. At last, the storm was about to reach the other end of town. It gained strength on the way to the hillside street. She no longer felt like walking in the rain and being bombarded by thunders and lightings. She realized the train station should be somewhere ahead of her, behind the fence. Suddenly, she heard the train whistle that had been whistling for a while but her mind had been elsewhere back then. She started to run, another gate was just a few metres away. She reached it in a matter of just a few seconds. Her umbrella was dangling on her side, hitting her leg every now and then. She was looking into a distance on her left, where a gleamingly white back of the last train escaped. How could she miss it? Her thoughts were overshadowed by anger. It was right here! And I was… she bit her bottom lip and shut her eyes. She wanted to cry. The evening got so bad so quickly. I was here, too. 

The white dot that the train had turned into disappeared behind trees and houses and in the dark that the storm had brought along. It flashed for a split of a second when lighting cracked the black clouds above. But then it was simply gone. No one was to blame but her. As always.

She spun around once again. The crowd on the stairs of the chapel was slowly falling apart into smaller groups, quartets, trios and pairs. She stood there, in front of the gate and people would pass her by, opening up their umbrellas as the raindrops started to build up. Most figures, however, got lost in the small grey houses. All was over in a few minutes. The street was now nothing but heavy rainfall knocking against the gravel, thunders and lightings. The small grey houses were quiet--only laughter broke the sounds of the storm--and the light in their windows was stable and warm. She looked at the sky above and it, at last, gave her an answer. She didn’t want to face it. Not now. Or at least not alone. She ran up to one of the houses. Her hand flew up right in front of her nose in a fist. It was an inch away from the door. The curtains moved, shadows lingered in the window as if they were waiting on her to knock. 

Knock, she whispered to herself in her head. 

Knock, the wind seemed to whisper as well. 

Her fist soared in front of the door until her arm started to hurt. Then she dropped it to her side. Still, she didn’t leave. She stared at the grey stone in front of her. Shadows in the window began to dance, wordless melody hit her ears. 

The door suddenly moved on its own as if it too was whispering: “Knock!” 

Now, she only had to push. It was as if the people inside decided to nudge her to come inside, careful not to force her. 

Her breath was heavy. She couldn’t push the door. She couldn’t enter the house. What would she tell these people? What would she had to say to them? They were strangers and she could be a mere thief--here to steal their joy, their melody, their light. 

She closed the door that she had never really opened, and then she set on a run. As she always had done. 

The grey houses and their lights looked like a moving smudge on a very old camera film. She was running and running and crying and running and sobbing and moaning until she spotted a strange change in her surroundings--one of the grey houses was just grey. No light was coming out of the windows. It stood high on the hillside, but she started jogging up the nearest stairs, nonetheless. If it was empty, she could fill it up. It could be her home for the stormy night. It was just so out of the place as she was. 

She managed to keep her balance all through the run up the hill. But when she reached the small grey house, she fell on its doorstep. 

There was a cross on its door with a nametag. Once she pinned her eyes onto the words and numbers, she couldn't look away. Those were the second only words she could read with ease that day. The rain was pouring down on her, her purple umbrella on her side. She stared at the door of the house as she tried to accept the fact that this small grey house wasn’t about to become her home for one stormy night. This dark and inane house would be her home forever. 

Just before she entered, her heart shattered at million different places in million different times, she had read the nametag again.  

Kate Min

＊ 16 August 2001 -- ✝ September 2020

           There was no exact date of death.

           There was no epitaph. 

           There is no still.