Dancing in Storms

[Content Warning - suicide, suicidal ideations, threats, mentions of death]

I can hear the thunder, rumbling like an earthquake in the distance. I can see the lightning, like swords, battling each other in the sky. The rain’s soft pitter-patter on the roof is enough to make a small child fall asleep. 

We can all see it, the storm, making its way north of my small town. I look out the window, desperately trying to catch another glimpse of the lightning fighting in the sky for just one more second. 

I’m not the only one looking out the window. A little girl is looking out her window too. She looks about 3 years younger than me. She doesn’t notice me, she’s too distracted by the storm. When she does notice me, she waves, then leaves. 

The next I see her, she’s making her way to the driveway. She doesn’t have an umbrella. She approaches the end of the smooth asphalt, the roof no longer provides shelter. She carefully fixes her dainty white dress while stepping out into the downpour. She’s dancing. She looks so happy. 

From her porch, her father’s watching. She calls out to him and he comes to dance along with her. This little girl and her father are dancing in the rain. Their lives couldn’t be happier. I wonder why she takes so much joy in dancing in thunderstorms? Maybe the way the rain feels as it dances on her skin, or the loud rumbling of the heavens cries in the distance provide some sort of comfort to her. 

I want to experience the fun she’s having. I want to look as happy as she does right now. 

I want to be happy, so I’ll dance in the rain. I’ll dance for so long until my skin is soaked right to its core. I’ll stay in the rain until I’m shaking from the cold. I run from my window. I fumble down the stairs. I don’t bother putting my shoes on, the concrete has always felt nice on my bare feet. 

When I get outside, it’s cold. The droplets of water pound on my head, threatening to break right through my skull. The girl’s father had urged her back inside, but she’s looking out the window. We make eye contact. I wave, and her father shuts the curtains. I look up to the dark clouds, they don’t seem like they’ll part soon. 

Raindrops get in my eyes. The girl looked so happy when she was out here dancing with her dad. Why can’t I feel that same happiness? Just because I’m alone? Just because I’m alone, I’m not allowed to be happy? 

I sit down in a puddle. The air feels colder now. The atmosphere feels lonely instead of joyful. I see the little girl peek out her window. Once she sees me look back, she quickly runs away. I hear a door open, small footsteps in puddles approaching me. I see her white dress inching closer into view. I look up, she has a radio player in hand.

“Are you ok, mister?” She asks. 

Mister? I’m only 17, I don’t seriously look that old, do I?

“Yeah, I’m ok,” I say, “What’cha got there? A radio?”

“I saw you watch me earlier and you looked sad,” she says, awkwardly looking down. I am a stranger, after all. It must’ve been weird seeing me staring. No wonder her dad took her inside, “Don’t you have a daddy to dance with?”

“No, my dad died a while ago,” I appear to have spoiled her mood.

“Well, I could dance with you!” She says, proceeding to grab my hand, “Come on!”

She brings me to the middle of the road and turns on the radio. Some old music comes on, a jazzy tune with saxophones and trumpets and tubas. She twirls around, dancing completely offbeat, laughing, and reaching for me to join her. 

I just stand there, uncomfortable. I don’t even know how to dance, and everything feels awkward. We are both barefoot — in a storm — listening to old jazz music that isn’t even that good, yet she can still smile and ask me to join her. 

She gets tired of waiting and snatches my hand. She shakes along with the beat and laughs, bringing my hands along with her. I give up. I kick my feet to the rhythm and make jazz hands in my best attempt at what I hope is dancing. A wave of serotonin washes over me. I seem to forget all my worries and my sadness. 

This one moment, dancing in the rain with this little girl washes everything away. We laugh and scream as lighting strikes the lightning rods above our houses. It’s getting colder, but we don’t care, we can barely think. 

She starts to shiver and I suggest she go back inside, she doesn’t want to. Her fingers start to turn purple. Mine do too. I need her to go back inside, but she refuses. 

What would her father think if he finds out his daughter got sick because of me?

“We need to get you inside right away,” I say. She starts crying. 

No, don’t cry, please. Don’t ruin this amazing memory you’ve given me. Her father hears her cries and comes outside. He sees me with her and I can see how terrified he is, angry. I step back, knowing that if I bring her to him, he’ll get angrier. He storms up to me, thundering worse than the storm overhead.

“Stay away from my daughter,” he says, “lay a finger on her and I’ll kill you.” 

He grabbed the little girl’s arm and went back into the house. She is definitely going to get an earful from her father about stranger danger. 

The father’s words echoed through my mind.

“Lay a finger on her and I’ll kill you.”

Were fathers really willing to kill for their children? What is it like knowing that someone would kill for you? What does it feel like to have someone love you that much? 

I could no longer feel my fingers. I should also go inside. 

Why should I though? 

No one is waiting for me.

If I died, no one would know. 

It’s not worth it if I have to go back inside that sad grey house with no one there, looking out the window to watch happy little girls play with their fathers. After all, no father would come to dance with me. No father would risk themselves for me. No father would hurt someone else for me.

I would rather let the cold consume me. 

I can’t feel my ears anymore — even with my hands. I imagine my nose is redder than blood. I try to wiggle my toes in a puddle to attempt to get some feeling back and fail. None of my limbs will move. My clothes are completely soaked, the rain is dripping down my face. 

I doubt anyone is coming to get me. 

I am shivering violently, even though my limbs won’t move where I want them to, they won’t sit still. The shaking won’t stop. I feel like I can’t breathe, my heart is beating slower than usual. 

I can’t remember where I am anymore or what I was doing. I try calling for help, but my speech is slurred and only comes out in mumbles.

I knew it — no one is coming. 

I can feel my heart beating slower and slower with every breath.

Maybe this was for the best. Maybe the world would be better off without me. Me, the waste of space — the waste of oxygen. The useless kid who could never do what he was told properly. 

That must be why everyone left. I can’t do anything right, I ruin everything. Mum and Dad left me to die because they knew I didn’t deserve to live. Maybe they got in that accident on purpose. 

I feel faint, and cold, and tired. I’m losing consciousness.

The last thing I hear is a horrible trumpet. The girl had snuck out once more with her radio.

“Mister? I know it’s been a long time, but I was able to sneak out! Please dance with me!”

I can’t see, but I can hear her. I think she’s shaking me. I fall over on the pavement. It’s cold —so cold. Someone, please make it stop. I want to go home. I don’t want to do this anymore. 

I’m sorry, I didn’t want you to see me like this.

Unfortunately, you’ll have to find someone else to dance with.