The rain crashed into her- as she raced against the streaks drenching her in their misery. It was a childish game- one that made her nostalgic for times that made little sense in her reality.

The feeling of the water sliding down her skin -her clothes becoming a second skin, her hair wrapping itself around her face. She didn’t like any of it; didn’t like the feeling of pain it brought with its righteousness.

In her youth, days like these were spent gazing out the window- or with a chair stacked at the patio, sipping milk from a tea cup in her pigtails. Her grandma would tell her the rain was the moon goddess; crying for the sins of the men she could never save. It seemed ridiculous to her; even when the fascination festered. And when she giggled along in her naive daze, her grandma would smile down at her; not saying a thing. It made little sense to her then, just as it did in her present.

Yet, the story somehow made its way into the back of her head- her smile haunting the questions she never got to ask.
It wasn’t until him, that she weighed in on the secret. Until it pieced itself together. Her smile of saying how little she knew of things, how true the tale would turn as the years passed and time caught her in its web.

She hated the rain.

Running in the cold, she didn’t have a clue what she was looking for. Why her feet chased the drops as they fell at her feet- as if to scare them away. Hoping they’ll leave just as everything does.

The playground wasn’t what she was looking for. It wasn’t even on her map. But somehow, as she took a seat on the bench, watching as the usually cherry red swings were doused in water- gave her a sense of satisfaction she couldn’t place.

Pulling the hood over her head, she raised the lighter to her lips- the unlit stick dangling from the end of her mouth. Taking in a large puff, she felt the air fill her and escape into the night.

A treacherous thing; taking her but leaving her with nothing in return.

Time ticked at a pace that left little to desire.
It was things like these that made her realise her maddening urge for something more concrete– days where she craved a solace that would wreck her whole. Even if it stamped its claws into her.

She didn’t know why she enjoyed the scenery as much as she did. Why she liked the water sliding down the metal; a trail of drops left untouched. The soaked grass, the clumped sand. It strung a chord in her that made her delirious. A familiarity that wretched her senses.

Watching the usual laughter disappear into the air; the forgotten moments a bitter memory. The desertion of the past- a reminder of how things fade once they’ve done their job.
How people leave when they’ve had their fill.

She wondered what he was doing that night. If he was watching the rain as it fell from the sky- unbiased in its cruelty.

She imagined his hands around one of those girls he loved to shove in the bathroom stall before dessert. Or one of those leggy women that hung around his booth- waiting for a glance that he generously delivered. Maybe he was fucking his way into a new tabloid, maybe he was drowning in so much whiskey he could hardly use his own hands for support.

One thing was certain- he wasn’t spending the night thinking of her.

She would be in his bed, if he were.

The smoke snaked it’s way through the drizzle- a path left undesired. She watched her own breath fog the cold air. Watched as it left her in waves of nothing but emptiness.

Why couldn’t she just fucking give up?

If only it was that easy. If only she could toss his presence out of her soul- just as easily as she could erase the charred ashtrays and the half empty bottles of drinks she would never touch again.

Neither left.

He was everywhere. His shampoo in the bath tub, his cologne on the sheets. His breath in her ear, his hands on the wall. It was an incomplete tragedy- a cliffhanger that left little to the imagination.

He was a chime in the wind. A cold glass of water on a summer day.
He was the temporary escape from the monotony, a release that was lost in the noise as soon as it was heard.

He was too fleeting to be anyone’s. He wasn’t meant to be kept.

His hoodie weighed her down. His hands brought the diminishing stick to her lips. She smiled at the invasion. It was her way of living through the mess he forgot to clean.

Dropping it to the ground, she watched it fizzle until the water silenced its hiss. Watched as it drowned in the tears she could no longer spare.

Maybe this was how it was always supposed to be.

She was stupid. Desperate.
She was a run of the mill girl with a broken heart. Her insides still churned at the thought of him, she was still afraid to let go of the parts he’d left with her. She was a useless lover; never giving him a reason to stay, but asking for it, anyway.

As the night drew in, her heart grew a little emptier. She had room. Too much room.
It was vacant- her days were empty, her nights were long.
Sleep was luxury.

Turning the keys with her shaking hands, she left the door unlocked. The clothes puddled on the floor- her hair dripping on the covers. She went to bed, the same way she’d awoken- alone.

With the hope that maybe, just maybe, the door would crack open in the middle of the night. Or the light would engulf her before he did.

She went to bed, just as she always did.

Wishing tomorrow he wouldn’t drown her in his rain.

~Simran Khurana




6 thoughts on “Drenched 

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