Downpour

(trigger warning: blood)

It’s a light shower today, the blood falling from the sky in regulated droplets, and pale crimson in colour as the splatters hit the windowpane. A light shower, yes, but I have laundry hanging from the line only now remembered and I swear under my breath as I scramble outside. 

“Fucking fucking fuck,” I curse, hand shielding my eyes from the metallic, sickly-sweet and quickly clotting drops. My futile tearing at the washing is not at all helping the stains already setting into the fibres of once white fabric. Arms full of sodden, sticky clothes I barrel my way inside, attempting with difficulty to swallow down the salty fluid that has gotten into my mouth somehow. 

In the safety of my kitchen, I drop the dripping garments into a basket and make a futile attempt to rinse the blood off my hands. But it sticks stubbornly, as if determined to cling to me, to remind me of its presence. I sigh heavily, resigning myself to the fact that today's laundry is beyond salvaging. My sister is going to be so pissed off with me – half of the things now drenched in red were hers, and I just know I’ll never hear the end of it. 

Filling the washing machine with detergent, I dump everything inside unceremoniously, hoping desperately that with just enough bleach stains might come out. But as soon as the cycle begins, I feel a sense of unease twist my insides. This is only exacerbated when the washing machine gives a great shudder as the metal cylinder inside begins to turn.

Looking through the clear front I watch as the water, now pink, churns and froths, but instead of washing away the crimson stains, it seemed to only spread them further, turning the entire load a sickly shade of red. I watched in horror as the fabric twists and contorts as if it were alive, writhing in agony under the onslaught of the water. 

I lurch forward to stop the machine, to try and salvage what little remains of the laundry, but it’s too late. With a deafening roar, the washing machine shakes violently, its metal frame buckling under the strain. And then, with a final, desperate groan, it explodes in a shower of sparks and steam, sending me stumbling backwards, coughing and sputtering as the acrid smell of burnt rubber fills the air.

I stared at the wreckage in disbelief. What in the world is going on with today? First the bloodrain when there was none forecast, and now this. Someone up there has seriously got it out for me.

I glance out the window, watching the crimson droplets fall from the sky with an almost hypnotic rhythm. It's strange how quickly one becomes accustomed to such peculiar occurrences. The first time it happened, I was terrified, convinced that the end of the world was upon us. But now, it's just another inconvenience to add to the list of everyday struggles.

I turn away from the window, trying to shake off the feeling of unease that always settles over me when the blood rain comes, but can’t help glancing back to see that the rain shows no sign of stopping. It falls heavier, with relentless consistency, coating everything in a layer of sticky crimson. 

Now the blood rain takes on a surreal quality, almost as if it's alive, pulsating with a sinister energy. I find myself drawn back to the window, unable to tear my gaze away from the macabre spectacle outside. It's then that I notice her, standing in the middle of the street, bathed in the crimson downpour.

She's dressed in white, her clothes pristine against the backdrop of blood-soaked pavement. What the hell is someone doing outside in the middle of a bloodstorm? I wonder. Somehow, I fail to notice that the rain doesn’t seem to be touching her. All I can see is the blinding white of her hood and cape, such an odd choice of clothing. 

She turns and looks at me and a shiver runs down my spine as I recognize her. But what is my sister Sarah doing out there? There’s something different about her, something unsettling. Her eyes, usually bright and full of mischief, are empty, devoid of any emotion. It's as if she's been consumed by the madness of the world outside.

Without hesitation, I throw open the front door and rush out into the rain, heedless of the blood soaking into my skin. "Sarah!" I cry out, my voice lost in the cacophony of falling droplets. But she doesn't respond, doesn't even acknowledge my presence. 

I reach out to touch her, to shake her out of whatever trance she's fallen into, but she recoils from my touch as if burned. "Sarah, what's happened to you?" I plead, desperation creeping into my voice.

She turns to face me then, and for a moment, I see a flicker of recognition in her eyes. But it's quickly replaced by something else, something dark and otherworldly. "You shouldn't have come here," she whispers, her voice barely audible over the roar of the rain. "You don't belong in this place."

As her words hang in the air, I'm overcome with a sense of dread, a feeling that I've stumbled into something far beyond my comprehension. But before I can respond, she vanishes into the crimson haze, leaving me standing alone in the middle of the street, surrounded by the relentless downpour of blood.

I stagger back towards the safety of my house, heart pounding in my chest. What had happened to Sarah? And what did she mean by "this place"? It's as if the world itself has turned against us, twisting and warping into something unrecognizable.

Inside, I collapse onto the floor, the events of the day crashing over me like a tidal wave. The blood rain, the exploding washing machine, and now Sarah's strange behaviour—it's all too much to process. But amidst the chaos, one thought rises above the rest: I need to find out what's going on.

With trembling hands, I reach for my phone, intending to call someone, anyone who might have answers. But as I unlock the screen, I'm greeted by a barrage of notifications, each one more disturbing than the last.

Emergency alerts flash across the screen, warning of widespread chaos and destruction. Reports of violence and madness flood social media, painting a grim picture of a world on the brink of collapse. And then, buried among the chaos, I find a message from Sarah.

It's short and cryptic, just a single sentence that sends chills down my spine: "They're coming for you."

I stare at the message in disbelief, my mind racing with fear and confusion. Who are "they"? And why are they coming for me? But before I can even begin to make sense of it all, I hear a noise outside—a soft, rhythmic tapping against the window.

Heart pounding, I approach cautiously, half expecting to see Sarah standing there, her eyes empty and devoid of life. But when I peer through the glass, what I see sends a shiver down my spine.

It's not Sarah standing outside—it's something else entirely. Something dark and sinister, with eyes that seem to pierce straight through me. And as it raises a hand to the window, leaving a bloody smear in its wake, I realize with a sinking feeling that I am totally, utterly, in over my head.