Army of Raindrops

Pathetic fallacy. That’s what they call it. And this, this is certainly pathetic.

I watch the raindrops race down the windowpane, rushing to reach the bottom as if there were a prize for speeding down the pane of glass that protects me from the outside world. They each take a different path, meandering down the racetrack, sometimes joining to form an alliance. I stare past the drops, focusing on the outside. The outside. What a terrifying place. 

There are people who smile, laugh, and go about their day under technicolour umbrellas. The hustle and bustle of the main street below me, the businessmen rushing and the young mothers pushing elaborate prams through the downpour. I lie in my bed, staring out at the energy on the outside – it’s better than staring at the wall; the wall is a blank canvas for my morbid imagination to create stories of darkness that takes me further into the black hole of my mind. 

A little boy jumps in the puddles. He splashes and laughs as his mother films him on her expensive smartphone, inevitably ready to post on Instagram to show how fantastic her life is. The boy screams with excitement as his yellow wellington boots are engulfed by the pools of water on the floor, and the mother smiles with delight at her offspring enjoying the weather. 

It’s times like this that I hate the happy, the satisfied ones, the people without care, the smilers. I lie in agony, unable to will myself out of bed to go to the bathroom. Every breath is torture, and every second is a knife in my chest. When will it end? Will it end? The psychiatric team say it will and that this is, “just a phase,” and that, “you’ll feel much better soon.” It’s difficult to believe them when my only thoughts are not even my own. 

I’m followed by sounds of evil, sounds telling me to end my life, or end the life of others. I put my headphones on full blast, playing Chopin’s preludes until my eardrums feel like they might burst. This is how I drown out the demonic forces that attack my head throughout the day. I look back at the window. Rain continues to pour, smashing against my window as if trying to break through. I don’t want that, I don’t want to break through. I want a breakthrough. I want a break from this horror that I’m living in. 

The rain is intensifying now, and people are hurrying inside. Empty streets, a barren landscape of grey buildings and grey pavements. That’s just it, isn’t it? Grey. No black or white, just a grey limbo with no way out. I used to see the dark and the light, but now it’s just grey; grey people, grey emotions, grey feelings – just, well, just grey. I look back to the window by my bed. Darker clouds have settled across the white sky, taking their place and claiming the world beneath them. They cry alongside me, big, heavy teardrops that make splashes that ripple out as my own misery does. My mother, she doesn’t know what to do, and my father is emotionally redundant, so talking to him is futile. My door is locked. Nothing can penetrate my fortress of solitude, my kingdom of despair. 

The raindrops continue to race down the windowpane, thicker and faster by the second. I lose track of which drop I’m following as they merge into one, creating a sheet of water cascading down before me. I watch the raindrops fall, and feel the drops of salt roll down my own face, echoing what is in my vision. I don’t cry. I never cry. I wipe my eyes, repeating my mantra of not crying. They say crying is pain and weakness leaving the body. It’s just my incapability of holding things together. Yet, as hard as I try, the tears begin to fall. They fall harder, and harder still. I can’t breathe.

Look around the room, count the things. That’s what my therapist says to do. How many windows are there? One...two...three...four. There are four windows in my room. How many books are on my bedside table? One...two...three...four...five...six. There are six books on my bedside table. How many lights are on the ceiling? One...two...three. There are three lights on the ceiling. And I still can’t breathe. 

I try to take a big breath of stagnant air, but my lungs remain unoccupied. The anger inside me is rising like a rocket, launched from its pad, leaving a cloud of fire behind. Don’t do it. I reach for the scissors. Don’t do it. I pull back the sleeve on my arm. Don’t do it. And then it’s done. The localisation of the pain I’m living with spills over my bed sheets, and I cry even more. I’m lost looking out of the window where the only people are racing past to get from A to B as quick as possible. I’m lost with a wounded arm that needn’t have been this way. I’m lost in my own bed, I’m lost in my own bedroom, I’m lost in my own head. 

I can’t do it. There’s nothing left for me. I can’t watch this episode anymore. The main characters are gone, and the set is falling apart. There’s no action, no drama, not even romance. All there is is endless rain, pouring, heavy rain. The black clouds laugh at me from above as they watch me hopelessly breathe through the pain, and they let the rain attack my window like bullets, bullets that I wish would reach me, now. I reach for the handle, and I pull it open and sit on the ledge. All it would take is a slip of the hand, a minor shuffle forward, a little nudge towards the pelting rain and miserable grey world. I cry, and I cry, and I cry.

And I still can’t breathe.