Storm Karma

I thought it was karma at first.

That strange happening of justice being done by an unseen force. Wikipedia defines karma as the "spiritual principle of cause and effect where intent and actions of an individual (cause) influence the future of that individual (effect). Good intent and good deeds contribute to good karma and future happiness, while bad intent and bad deeds contribute to bad karma and future suffering."

But this was something different. This was cause and effect from myself directed at someone else.

When I think back, it's always been there. But as time went on, I was able to hone it. I was able to be more selective in its use.

In the beginning, I didn't recognise it. At all. But now, I see it for what it was.

In the winter, I would be down. The dark nights, and shorter days, adding to my misery. I can't be one-hundred percent sure my mood added to it, but those winters were severe. The most severe people had remembered for a long time. I didn't mind the cold so much, but the wet, rainy days were miserable.

During the spring and summer, my moods improved. I loved being outside. Being next to nature. And the summers were hot. Droughts during at least two of them.

The boffins all cited global warming as being responsible for the extremes of weather. Little did they know.

Back in the days when driving on the roads was much safer than it is now, mainly due to the lack of mobile phones and therefore fewer distractions, I used to ride a motorcycle. A Kawasaki GT550. Blue. Shaft-driven. And wonderful. I'd ride it everywhere. I didn't even own a car. Passed my bike test and got my full bike licence years before I ever needed to get a car.

I recall how I was riding along the road that runs from Winchester to Petersfield. A long, winding road, with plenty of opportunities to get a ton-up. On this particular day, as I just enjoyed the ride, someone overtook me on a blind bend. As dangerous as it was, it was exacerbated by the oncoming truck, which was almost straddling the double-white lines that ran along the centre of the road indicating traffic should not cross them, and the car that was overtaking me cut in short, almost crashing in to me. If I hadn't have braked hard, they would have clipped my front wheel and I'd have been a goner. They didn't even acknowledge their poor driving or error and just sped away as I accelerated again.

I was angry. My life had been endangered and my blood boiled. The red mist descended as I saw them ahead in the distance and I screamed at them as the adrenaline took hold. Just as I did so, and as they exited the trees and entered a part of the road that was exposed to fields on the right, a massive gust of wind hit their car and forced it from the road. The driver battled to steer the car back onto the road, as it hit the rumble strips at the edge, then ploughed into the raised, grass-covered earth kerb. Under the stress of the front bumper, the dirt compounded,and furrowed, causing the car to up-end. It rolled, and tumbled several times, before coming to rest on its roof in the adjacent field. Petrol leaked from the engine and a spark-plug that had been wrenched from the engine block with the force of the impact but was still attached to the coil and power supply from the battery, ignited the fumes and then the flammable liquid, and the vehicle burst into flames. As I drew alongside, I could see the person within frantically trying to free themselves from the upside-down car. But they were pinned hard between the seat and steering column and even if I had managed to get close, which I wasn't able to due to the intensity of the flames which I could feel the heat of from the road, I wouldn't have been able to assist in their exit from the burning wreck.

As they burned, I remembered thinking it curious how it was they didn't scream. I put this down to shock, as the flames took hold and their clothing became engulfed by fire. By the time the fire brigade arrived, having been called by a local villager, there was nothing but black smoke coming from the car. It billowed straight up, belying the gust that had caused the vehicle to be wrenched from the road in the manner it had.

I don't dream often. But when I do, they tend to be quite nightmarish. I remember bedding down for the night, during a summer when it had been very warm and the humidity was the highest it had been in years. I hadn't changed the duvet from the winter tog to the summer one, and probably overheated during the night, which in turn, I suspect, brought on one of the worst nightmares I've ever experienced.

In the dream, I was walking, through town, with my nephew, Daniel. We'd had a fun day at the seaside, stopping off at the amusement fair and playing crazy golf. We'd gone into town, to get some lunch and I'd agreed to having a McDonald's with him. As we left, a tall, lanky, dirty and shifty-looking man in a long, leather trench-coat, stood staring at us. I managed to avoid eye contact and believed him to be another beggar. I became aware of him following us, as we made our way along the street, and tightened my grip slightly on Daniel's hand. I didn't seem overly concerned with the prospect of abduction, as the amount of people around would make such an attempt reckless and, quite probably, the kidnapper would be caught. But it concerned me that this down-and-out, in appearance at least, was taking an unsavoury interest in us.

We arrived at the crossing, that would take us across a very busy and heavily used road, and Daniel excitedly asked if he could press the button. I relinquished my grip on his hand, to allow him to step slightly away from me to push the button, even though the panel indicated it had already been pressed by one of the many people that stood waiting to cross the road. As he stepped back beside me, and raised his hand, I saw the tall, dark man, behind him. Before I could grab Daniel's hand, the man pushed my nephew into the road. The driver, of the cement mixer, had no time to react to avoid smashing into the child's small frame and Daniel disappeared beneath the heavy vehicle's front tyres. I was vaguely away of the sounds of bones crunching, yet no scream from Daniel himself, as his body was crushed. The truck managed to stop, as screams from women stood at the crossing echoed, and Daniel's mangled and bloodied form appeared between the front and rear wheels.

I turned, my grief coupled with anger, towards the tall man that had murdered my sister's boy. He smirked as he looked at me, which caused my anger to rise further and I started to see the red mist again. As I did so, a massive clap of thunder sounded and I was forced awake.

Outside, a huge storm was raging. The wind whistled and forced itself through the ventilation slats in the fascia under the eaves of the house, making ghostly howling sounds. Rain pelted at the windows and lightning flashed, followed by loud thunder almost instantly, as the storm wreaked its havoc above my home. I was shaking. Half with rage and half with horror, at what had happened in the dream. I was distraught. Something inside me suggested something terrible had happened to my nephew in real life.

I called my sister. She told me Daniel was in bed and I was being silly, of course, I urged her to check on him anyway, which she reluctantly did. He was fine.

After I had confirmation he was okay, I relaxed. The storm almost immediately ebbed and dissipated and the rain relented.

Each morning, when I awake, I tell myself to be happy. I smile, the sun shines and all is good. But, some days, I forget. When I forget, and my mood is low, it rains.

We need the rain. Just like we need our moods. To have nothing but sunshine can be wearing. But having control. Over both. There's the challenge.

I tried to indulge my skill. To have sunshine during the day and rain at night. But, when asleep, I found I had no control on the weather or my moods, unless influenced by dreams. I tried lucid dreaming, but that gave a weird combination of "freak weather" as some tabloids put it. Thundersnowstorms. Lightning amidst a flurry of snowfalls. Lighting up the entire sky. Rainbows amongst waterspouts.

When awake, and conscious of what I'm doing, I can summon a tornado. As long as I vent my anger, I can control what occurs in the environment. But someone latched on. Someone realised the power I have. They tried to blackmail me and I wrought a storm upon them. Unfortunately, for me, they survived.

They went to the press. They had photos. A number of deaths, seemingly caused by freak weather or the consequences thereof, had occurred. But there was one common factor in all of them. I was nearby. I was present in several of the photos. And they picked up on it. Or someone on the internet did. And it went viral. The attention was too much. I became depressed and the clouds came. A constant, unrelenting sweeping of clouds across the sky. Grey, miserable. Then the police came. I battered them with what I could, in a manner which I could best muster so as not to make it seem as if it was coming from me, but they withstood it all.

And now, I'm in a room. In a stark, cream-coloured and cushioned room. With just a skylight in the centre of the ceiling, about fifteen feet up, giving dull illumination to the four walls within which I am sealed. 

They come. With pills, which they force down my throat. With injections, which they administer after tying me to the bed.

To control my moods.

And the weather.

Some would call that…

Karma.