Storms

tw:suicide

There once was a boy,

who came in the form of a 13-year-old

with messy brown hair,

who loved the rain.

He loved the rain so much

he’d sit by the window every time it stormed,

and became mesmerized in its beauty.

He also loved the rain because it brought a girl along with it,

who came in the form of

barefeet,

short black hair, which soaked her clothes.

And she wore bruises on her legs and arms,

as if they were tattoos.

But he still thought she was beautiful.

He’d sit by the window,

as she slowly walked along the road,

spreading her arms out

and closing her eyes,

as if she wanted to take in as much of the rain as possible.

He thought it was funny,

But he still thought she was beautiful.

If they made eye contact

then he’d smile at her,

and she’d give him a small smile back,

and she’d look up to the roaring sky.

And smiled.

He thought she was weird,

But he still thought she was beautiful.

One rainy day,

he heard a knocking at his door.

And she was there.

Her tears hidden by the raindrops.

She cried out to him,

“Help me.”

But he replied,

“Why?”

And she tore away from him, sobbing,

and ran away.

But he still thought she was beautiful.

The next time it stormed,

he waited patiently by his window,

watching the rain and waiting for her.

All he received was the sound of a gun.

But he still thought she was beautiful.

The next morning,

his mother handed him a letter

and told him she was found with a gun in her left hand,

and the letter about him in her right,

and a bullet wound in her chest.

But he still thought she was beautiful.

The next time it stormed,

he thought about her and the letter.

And he understood now,

why she loved the rain so much.

As sometimes,

even the sky needs to scream.