It's Raining Secrets

This story contains mentions of sexual assault and self harm.

December 21

I was sipping hot tea in my bedroom when thousands of white paper slips fell from the sky like confetti. It's always such a beautiful sight; it's the very reason I bought a house with floor-to-ceiling windows. I wonder whose secret is being exposed to the world in this storm.

I turn on the television.

“Today's Rainy Day reveals that Brittany Weiler was violently raped in a dorm room in the University of California when she was eighteen years old.”

The secrets on the paper slips are always accompanied by a colored portrait photograph of the victim, their current age and their place of residence. 29-year-old Brittany now lives in East Los Angeles just 20 miles away. She dyed her hair blonde, so it’s hard to recognize her at first, but she definitely looks familiar. It takes me a few seconds to figure out how I know her.

And then it hits me. 

I immediately call my publicist.

***

“Let me get this straight, James. You and your friends took a drunk girl into your dorm room and you fucked her while your friends were watching?” My publicist Martin looks like he wants to set me on fire. His voice echoes in the tiny meeting room that I now feel trapped in.

“And you’re telling us this three days before the release of your new movie. A big career-changing role that we fought tooth and nail to get you?” my agent Alex has turned purple with rage. 

“It was such a long time ago. I didn’t even remember the incident until today,” I argue. “And besides, I was pretty drunk too. I was just a kid.”

“How old were you?” Martin asks. 

“Maybe twenty-four.”

“Was she conscious?” 

“Not at first. She woke up for a bit, I think. I don’t think she knows my face, though. We, uh, tied her up and blindfolded her.” 

Martin grimaces but continues to ask, “And your friends?” 

“They wouldn’t remember either. They were pretty intoxicated. Like black-out drunk.” 

For a couple of minutes, no one in the meeting room speaks.

“This is what we’re going to do,” Martin sighs. “We’re going to be on the down-low. You will say nothing about it until a month after the movie releases in theaters. We’ll get a lawyer on the case, but since it happened over ten years ago, it’s not likely you’ll get prosecuted. 

After a month, we’ll book you a sympathetic tell-all interview where you confess what you did, hopefully before your Rainy Day comes. We can find a way to preserve your image so that you still have a chance to continue your career down the line.”

“What if my Rainy Day comes before the interview?” I ask. “We can’t just say that it’s a lie?”

Alex shakes his head. “You know that Rainy Day secrets have always been proven to be very specific and true. They are never lies. 

Nobody knows how Rainy Days work or how the weather chooses whose secrets to tell, but so far what we do know is that it only tells one secret a day maximum. There are seven billion people on Earth. The probability of it choosing two people living in the same city a month apart is extremely low. It’s better to take our chances. 

Keep quiet for now. No one’s going to watch a feel-good Christmas movie with a protagonist played by a sex offender.”

I hate the words “sex offender” and how it’s suddenly a part of my identity all because of a mistake I made nearly a decade ago. 

So much has happened since my college days. I’m no longer a gangly theater student who gets wasted with his friends every night and makes rash decisions. I don’t need to get girls drunk to get them to sleep with me anymore. 

I’m a Golden Globe Award-winning actor and was voted Most Handsome Face of the Year twice in a row. After a lifetime of dedication to my art, I’m finally as successful and beloved as I deserve to be. 

No matter what, I intend to keep it that way.

December 23

Today is not a Rainy Day but it might as well be one. The news outlets are having a field-day with Brittany Weiler’s suicide. She couldn’t handle all the attention she was getting about the assualt and jumped off a bridge. If you’re asking me, that’s a very attention-seeking way to kill yourself. 

Not that I’m complaining. Now that she’s gone, the only thing I have left to worry about is a Rainy Day. 

With all this commotion surrounding Brittany’s death, you’d think they’d cancel late-night celebrity interviews. But here I am, promoting the romantic-comedy movie of the year with my co-star Juliet Hughes on live television. We sit across the renowned television host Harry Mallord.

The studio audience laughs at something Juliet says. She’s a natural at maintaining her image as so many actresses are. She had a Rainy Day a year ago, when she was first emerging in Hollywood. The paper slips fluttered down, revealing that Juliet did sex work in order to pursue a career in acting. 

“She’s no role model for our children!” people cried. As conservative audiences shamed her and boycotted her movies, Juliet created a campaign to financially support budding artists, donating $30,000 to art university scholarships. Her charity swayed the public’s opinion overnight. 

As I watch her now, I am inspired to turn my own secrets into something triumphant. I flash a smile at the crowd while answering one of Harry’s questions about my favorite cereal brand. The people “Ooh” and “Ahh” at my stories; they laugh at my jokes. Yeah, I’ve still got it.

Right when the interview is about to wrap up, Juliet says to Harry, “I have one more thing I’d like to say.”

The audience goes silent. 

“I’d like to take this moment — while I have your attention — to shine light on what happened to Brittany Weiler…”

My stomach drops to the floor. 

“…It’s every woman’s worst nightmare and shouldn’t happen to anyone. We really need raise more awareness about sexual assault. If you can, please donate to your local charities that support sexual assault survivors. We need to take a stand against this form of injustice. Thank you.”

The stands roar with applause. Like I said, she's a master manipulator. It's almost impossible to one-up her.

“That was very beautifully said,” Harry replied. “What happened to Brittany was truly a tragedy. Is there anything you’d like to add, James?”

I give the camera quizzical look. “Just don’t rape. It’s not that hard!” I joke. 

The people laugh and cheer. After the interview, social media headlines call me a “feminist heartthrob.” They absolutely adore me. 

I think I’m going to be just fine. 

January 19

“I strongly advise you to do the interview, James,” Martin says to me over the phone. It’s been a while month since the Brittany thing and he wants me to tell the world about my "crimes."

“My Rainy Day may never come so why should I incriminate myself?” I reply. 

“There’s a good chance that it will come before you retire. You need to take the first opportunity to get ahead of the narrative. People respect a man who holds himself accountable, not a coward who only apologizes when he gets caught.” 

I’m beginning to get angry. “I’m not a coward just because I don’t want to ruin my own life! You out of all people should know that I worked years to build this level of fame and success. If they’re going to take it from me, so be it. I’m not going to tear it all down with my own hands!”

“James,” Martin says, “Please just think this through…”

At this point, I’m seething. 

“…James, you need to-”

“You’re fired,” I snap.

“What?”

I hang up. 

April 9

I have 117 missed calls from my new publicist. 

It’s a Rainy Day. My curtains are drawn. I don’t even have to look outside. I know. I’ve been hearing their angry shouts since 8:33 AM. I can hear them loud and clear, even though I’m on the third floor. There must be at least a hundred people gathered around my house. The gates are locked. I’m safe for now. 

They begin throwing rocks. One smashes through my precious floor-to ceiling window.

There’s no denying it. It’s here. My Rainy Day. I've rehearsed this in my mind enough times to know exactly what to do.

I wear my finest suit.

I dress the set and make sure everything is in place.

Chair.

Hook. 

Noose. 

I pull back the curtains and get into place. 

There they are. My beloved audience. They have stopped shouting.

Through my shattered window, they’re looking up at me in disbelief. 

I take a final bow and get up on the chair.

It's time to do what I do best.

It's time to give these people a show.