I Favour Rain

If someone were to ask me my preference, I would say I favour rain. Storms are better but far more rare and particular, so I would settle for the rain. It’s the sound; the gentle, rhythmic thrumming like white noise but more subtle. Thunderstorms are deeper, like the predatory sky is growling at the lighting prey it can never catch. I like the story of the chase, the slow purr prowling in the distance and the cataclysmic clap that splits the air; a frustrated cry of failure. I could sit and listen to the same tale every night if only the sky would read it to me, but too often I am met with silence or whispers of other tales I would rather not be told. Like the one of the wind for instance. I don’t like the wind so much; sometimes it howls like a wounded animal tearing at the walls and even though I cannot feel it, I get chills. I endure the same anguish that I hear within that screaming, it makes my bones crawl and my heart squeeze into itself with discomfort. 

I blink the darkened thoughts away for a moment and try to focus on the shadowy outlines of the space around me. It was dim instead of pitch so it was probably around dusk or perhaps a very overcast afternoon - it was difficult to tell with no windows and only the joints in the walls and holes in the roof to see by. It was quiet though, tediously so. There were not many shapes to try and map out in the muted light but still my eyes traced the silhouette of the chair, the table, the curled edges of the mat I sat on. I gave up and exhaled knowing I could have pictured them just the same, if not better, with my eyes shut. So I did just that, remembering the intricate pattern woven into the rug, down to the red filigree that curled along the edges and the yellow thread that framed it. With my eyes still closed I tried to remember something else, something from outside the room I was in and my thoughts evolved into formless shapes and nameless ideas. 

I scare myself some nights imagining all the creatures in the darkness that I cannot see, their claws and teeth stained yellow with blood long stale and eyes that glint with sinister intent. I picture razor talons prying into the corrugated roof as if it were a tin can and I the sustenance within. There are nights when I cannot separate my fear from my longing, where the edges of  dream and nightmare blend together into obscurity. I do not know if it is the nightmare I fear or the thrill I feel in its possibility. How willingly I would accept any other circumstance than the one I currently reside within. I tried to think about the weather again, unsure of what to do with my wayward contemplation.

I don’t know if hail or silence is worse - sometimes the hail gets so loud I am deafened, even to my own thoughts, but the silence can get so heavy that my heartbeat thrums a song within my ears. The reprieve from my own mind can be blissful, though my thoughts are all that I own and yet the reminder that I am still alive is both a blessing and a curse. 

I sigh and fidget with the metal circlets on my wrists, a habit I should quit for the sake of the scabs that continue to split beneath them. My fingernails were already chewed painfully short and my hair so filled with knots that I could no longer keep my fingers busy brushing through it without ripping out chunks. I dropped my hands into my lap in a fruitless attempt to sit still but the ache in my back nagged at me and the stillness of the room around me made me twitch. I took some deep breaths and tried to think of other memories that wouldn’t morph into things that could haunt me. 

I miss the way rain falls against the window; the droplets that race to reach the bottom and how the glass gets cold to the touch so when you pull away there is a fogged outline of your handprint. I miss the feel of rain splashing against my skin, especially after a warm day when your hair starts to steam. 

I startle from my thoughts, the image so real it is almost like I can taste that particularly indescribable freshness as it streaks down my face, but my own tears are what deceive me. Their salinity is a mockery to my memory. I crush my eyes closed even tighter together as a broken sob forces its way through my throat. The tang of salt makes me think of the ocean and of how I can’t remember how long it has been since I saw it, I can barely even recall the feel of the sand beneath my feet. 

I swallow more sobs as my frustration wanders to the forefront. I shout, my voice raw with unshed tears. The sound is animalistic, unfettered by my humanity that has wandered to the wayside. I scream again as I tug against the chains that connect the cuffs on my wrists to the beam running along the wall. I know it will do nothing but chafe my wrists further but I was beyond reason. Spittle escapes from between my clenched teeth with every heaving breath as I feel a fresh trickle running down my hands. But I know those drops will be no closer to the rain than my tears had been. Overwhelmed by my utter lack of power I rage against the walls that keep me from the world. Blow after blow hurls against my iron surroundings, the sound a warbling charade of thunder. My arms ache from disuse in their malnourished state but my anger fuels the weakened muscles through my pointless tirade. 

Eventually exhaustion regains control of me and I slump back to my knees on that rug I can picture so perfectly and I let the sobs I had withheld rip through my chest. 

Ageless moments pass until my throat is so raw and my mouth so drought-ridden that each breath shreds my lungs. Unable to sit still in my torment I pound weakly against the wall, curled up in a battle between defiance and defeat. 

It takes me a moment to realise that it is no longer simply quiet outside. I can hear a rustling and some other strange sound I can’t quite place. I listen closely, struggling to calm my breathing. The sound rises again and a wave of understanding crashes through me.

Voices. 

Panic is my first response, then I am simply an object of noise. The sounds from my mouth are so hoarse and my hands slam against the walls with such ferocity that I drown myself out. I pause for the briefest moment to listen for the sounds outside and almost gag on my cry of relief when I hear their shouts. 

The light shatters through my head as the door creaks open and my eyes cannot adjust in time. I blink desperately and blooms of colour fill my vision denying me sight in an agonising betrayal. The voices are calling to me, insistent and questioning. I flinch away from concerned hands as they brush over my wrists. A cacophonous banging sounds as I continue to blink, my vision returning with the speed of languorous indifference. I feel the tug of the chains as one is wrenched free from the wood, then the other.

Peering through a fog of pin-prick pixels I search the face of concern hovering before me. A kind, unfamiliar face catalogues my condition and I notice her lips are moving. They are asking if I am ok. 

A burst of air escapes me in a stitch-work amalgamation of a laugh, a cry and a question.

Somehow they seem to understand. They help me to my feet and lead me to the door. 

I had forgotten the colour of day-light; I had forgotten everything of the outside world that hadn’t made a sound. I remembered it all now, in an overwhelming rush as I took a step forward.

My soul was reminiscent of the frosted depths of a winter's night finally meeting the thaw of a spring morning. The hair on my arms stood like blooming flowers called to attention with the drifting breeze. 

I took another step forward and laughed. I could see the promise of a storm painted on the horizon but for once I was content to wait. 

I took one last step forward and smiled at the blissful warmth as I was steeped in brilliant sunlight.