When The Rain Falls [Sav & Open]

I emerge from my dwelling with a twisted mindset. No one is home; my mother is likely accompanying Spade on a trip to the market to purchase whatever it is she may feel is necessary for my upcoming birthday celebration; it frightens me to think that soon I will be seventeen, what used to be my lucky number. I feel an immediate disgust for the party that I know I will soon be hosting. The Seam kids will pass my house, which will be alit with light. The light will bring their spiteful faces forward, and I will be forced to accept that I have angered each one of them. Heck, I might even know some of them! It’s not my fault we had to move. Each year my birthday falls at such an unfortunate time. Just after the Reaping. Ever since I was thirteen, my birthday has been a celebration that rejoiced the fact that I was not selected in the Reaping, my mother’s form of expressing herself without too much cruelty. She cannot exactly walk the streets singing about how lucky I was not to be reaped when there are families with breaking hearts, when the District is minus two children. And so, she uses my birthday as an excuse and throws a party. It all works out perfectly.

Though I have never been too keen, and my senses are mediocre, I can smell rain approaching. I feel a tug at my belly. Rain fall, in my eyes, has always been a form of beauty. Ironically, my mother loved rain too, perhaps because it was usually as cold as her own smile. As for myself, I enjoyed it merely because my father enjoyed it. He used to say that the grumble of thunder would chase away all of his fears, that the fine falling mist would create a magical feeling in the air. I never disagreed, generally because I wouldn’t dare of doing such a thing, but in the past few years I have come to understand what he means. The rain whispers to me sweet nothings; the invisible hands of gray mists stroke me with a certain rhythm, making silent promises that may or may not be broken. Everything about the rain reminds me of my father. Oh, if only he were not dead! I miss him so, and as much as I wish he would leave my thoughts, his face appears every night in my thoughts. I long for him to be here, with me, with the family. He meant so much more to me than Spade ever will. I start to move away from my home, slowly and without purpose.

Our world is lost in the dark light. The skies are rolling, an endless sea of gray and onyx, the hue of a dying soul. Undoubtedly, there is a storm on the horizon, and yet I refuse to return home as my mother would wish that I do. My father loved storms, I say whenever it is raining and she tells me to get back inside, and so do I. The clouds were captivating to him, the dim outside foreign in the fog of rain. Thus, whenever it rains, I stand outside and endure the icy, tear-shaped droplets until it is over. It is as if I am punishing myself for his death, though I have never before thought of it in such a way. Lightning crashes across the sky and a gray cloud rips apart, bleeding clear water onto my head, my clothing, and my flesh. Within a matter of minutes, the rain was heavy. With each drop I walk further, not sure of my destination. My feet, rather than leading me home where I should be, involuntarily turn toward the Seam. Where am I going? What am I doing? The rain is now heavy, stinging when it hits my skin. I find myself standing on a broken road and crouch down, pain blossoming inside of me. It isn't often that I think of my father. Now that I remember him, I am reduced to a sniveling child again, held in the invisible arms of comfort that belong to a loving figure of rain, of Mother Nature, of my deceased father.

Grief ignites an entirely new despair inside of me, a lack of respect for my own life. If I had the courage to kill myself, I would do it. Perhaps I could ask someone to do me a favor and gut me like a fish? No. They'd look at me like I was suffering from insanity. Am I not? No, I'm certainly not. Only when I conjure an image or have a thought regarding my father is it that I am in such a state. I try and surface the cheerful soul that lingers inside of me. For a moment, it is lost. And when I grasp the feeling of positivity, it flickers and then is gone as quickly as it came. It takes everything that I am, all of my pride, not to flee this path that I now perch on. I wish he was still with me, that he would hold me like this rain is doing...I want so badly to see his smile again, to hear his rough voice, his booming laugh. I give a sorrowful chuckle. Though he is gone, I realize suddenly that he has always held a part of me. That he has always kept me, even after death, as much I would like to deny it. As I still have him, he still has me. All of me.

Under the clouds and the sky and the rain, I let the last of him go so that I may finally begin to recover. "Goodbye," I whisper, wetting my lips after I speak. I pull the raindrops against my tongue and swallow the salt hesitantly. It has the same taste as my tears. Already, I feel lighter, my mourning for him now a mere shadow in the depths of my thoughts. I stand, my face wet with sadness and the rain. Puddles are forming at my feet, my expensive sneakers becoming moist. I am dripping, with my light blonde hair plastered to my face and my eyelids almost sparkling with the effect of the fog and the rain. Quickly, this storm is passing. Darkness begins to fade as the moon rises, and the rain is now less intense. I stand on two shaky legs and start walking. I am not quite aware of my intention, but I do not yet want to go home. I feel spent, as if I've spent the day running the streets of my District, from the fence to deep in the merchant area of town. I put my head in my hands and then shake his presence from my body. Now, truly, he is gone.

In the distance, I spot the silhouette of a female younger than I, likely around fifteen years of age. Her mannerisms are unfamiliar; this isn't someone I know. I start to walk toward her, suddenly craving company. I wonder fleetingly what she is doing out in the storm, and then give a shout. "Hello there!" As soon as the words pass from my lips, I begin to regret the greeting. My own personal ordeal has left me feeling rather unusual. Who knows what I will say to her when we start speaking? Oh, well. It is too late, because I am approaching her and I can tell that she has heard me; she would have been deaf not to. I observe her quickly, wondering how we will interact. At once, I can tell that she is from the Seam. She is wearing plain clothing, sharp contrast to my tailored pants and white crisp button down. I can tell that she is limping and wonder quickly if she has a gimp leg. Her eyes are startling, an intense blue, and this is a lanky girl, and she does look strong albeit the fact she is thin. Quite finished giving her the once-over, I slide my hands into my pockets and rock my dripping body from heel to toe, waiting for her to reply.