The Rain

He sat there, the boy, the clouds forming a fearful darkness in the sky above, and the leaves showing their pale undersides to the world in the rising wind, twisting and curling, like things alive. 

          It was quiet up and down the street save the children across the road from the boy, playing a game of tag, shouting and laughing, chasing each other around in circles of emphatic glee. Swings were tossed hap-hazardly this way and that, leaves skittered across the abundantly pot-holed street, all while the clouds twisted and writhed in the sky, changing to darker and darker shades every moment, just like the minds of men as the ages slip and fall away into the past to be forgotten by everyone save the wise, and let me tell you, there are not very many of those still existing. 

          The little boy’s bike wheel began to spin in the breath of the coming storm while laying on its side, creaking in a tired way, begging for a douse of oil to sooth its parched and wiry rungs. With the innocence only a child the age of he could accomplish, he eyed in a fervent manner the man that stood leaning against a metal fence down the street who seemed to be intensely concentrated on every move he made. He decided that he would stand by what all mothers have told their children at least once in their childhood, that he wouldn’t talk to strangers. 

          The boy felt a drop of rain fall on to his nose, and, glancingly fearfully at the sky, he rose from the chipped concrete curb, uprighted his bicycle, and, hopping atop the seat, he began to pedal down the road, avoiding the gnarled pot-holes and staying close to the side like his mother always told him to do. 

          The scent of decaying leaves collided in a pleasant way with the smell of coming rain, though it wasn’t any ordinary pleasant; it was a sort of pleasant that seemed to be laced with a deeper meaning or truth, the likes of which couldn’t be seen or understood no matter how long one studied or scrutinized it, for only the very tip, like an iceberg in the Atlantic, could be accessed. The face, the “tip” of this truth, or meaning, was the scent of fallen leaves and coming rain. 

          A swift look over his shoulder confirmed the boy’s frightening suspicions; the man was following him from a couple hundred yards back, walking leisurely on the sidewalk, without taking his eyes off of him. Scared, the boy began to pedal furiously, the tales his Grandmother had told him of kidnappings and little children not all that different from him being abducted by all sorts of terrible people flashing across the surface of his mind. 

          The little boy saw over the forest that loomed only yards ahead a flash that was partially concealed by ever darkening clouds, and heard the rumbling of thunder in the air seconds later as he raced down the path through the forest on his way back home. He, like any ordinary boy, did not find the forest comforting in the cloudy and ghastly weather, with all of its shady and mysterious nooks and crannies, high branches where shadowy things could lurk, the strange and unwelcoming sounds that came from creatures that were not visible, but most of all, the terrifying silence that can petrify you and put you under a spell where you can't seem to move a bone in your body. 

          Suddenly, to the boy’s dismay, the chain on his bicycle slipped out of place and, hitting a significantly sized rock, he crashed and fell to the ground, skinning his knee and cutting his elbow. For some time he lay on the pebbly path, his bicycle, one of its wheels still spinning, on top of him. The hoots and calls of the mysterious and unknown creatures began for a moment, and then that eerie silence I told you about settled over the forest like a fog. The boy stayed where he was, looking up at the treetops, frightened stiff, considering the possibility that the man had given up following him and had gone home. 

          Taking a deep breath, he pushed his bicycle off of him and stood, grimacing at his cuts and bruises. Glancing this way and that for any signs of movement, he crouched beside his overturned bicycle and started to replace its chain, getting his hands dirty in the process.

          A rustling from beside the path made him jump, and he began to tremble and wish he was back home in his room with a hot cup of coco, looking out at the oncoming storm instead of being stuck outside with it. The brush rustled again, and, in a little boy's wary voice, he said “hello?” 

          Nobody answered, but the boy was overcome with the awful feeling of being watched by someone or something, and he hesitantly began to fix his bicycle, more hurriedly this time. He soon had it fixed, and, hopping on, he started pedaling home faster than ever towards home. Sensing a presence behind him, he looked back, and was horrified to see the man that had been following him running at him now, and he was gaining on him alarmingly quickly. 

          Crying now, the boy began to accept the fact that he couldn’t out-pedal the man. After a few moments' consideration, he jumped to the ground and ran into the thick and dark trees, telling himself that if he couldn’t outrun the man, he could always hide from him. 

          With the sounds of the man running through the underbrush behind him, he discovered a fallen tree and decided that this was as good a hiding place as he would ever find, so he fell to the dirt and scooted under the tree as best he could, tucking his legs up against his chest and attempting to conceal his sobs in the folds of his shirt. 

          It began to rain.