Rain - EDITED!

She had awoken on that sunny morning, on the floor of an apartment she was almost positive wasn’t hers. The polished floorboards on which she had lain were immaculately clean. She supposed she was in a bedroom, but it seemed more like a guestroom. There were no photos of smiling couples, no hairbrushes full of someone’s youth, no baskets full of dirty, much-loved clothes, no crumpled sheets: absolutely no sign of life having been lived. The sun shone through the beige curtains defiantly, coming to a stop at the spotless, black desk. On the desk lay a small Compaq laptop. It was singing a buzzing song, an appealing invitation. She stood from where she had sat on the white quilted double bed and walked towards the singing laptop. Her walk was one of uncertainty. She didn’t know if she should strut with pride, or maybe step in long, graceful, posh strides, or even in short, petite, girly ones. And so she stumbled.1

The arduous task of walking was to no avail. The laptop required a username and password. How could words allow someone access to her memories, when she, the rightful owner of these memories was not? She was a writer, always unable to read the writing, the singer, always unable to hear the song, the lover, always unable to feel the love. She was in a dazed state. Without a past, how could there ever be a future? It was with those thoughts that the nameless writer, singer, lover sank to the ground.2

Asleep on the floor, she had no dreams. The time between closing her eyes at dawn, and opening them at nighttime, was a black, lifeless scene. She saw no faces, heard no voices, felt no pain. For the 9 hours, 28 minutes and 47 seconds that she was sleeping for, she was devoid of emotion, and that was good enough.3

The sun hung in the sky for a few hours, before beginning its descent. It was around sunset, when the birds began their nightly song. It began to rain, softly at first, but soon it began to pelt down on the world, causing the nameless, dreamless one to awaken.4

As the rain continued to sing, she, suddenly 11 years old again, fell to her knees screaming. It was out of pure instinct that she did this, pure instinct from a past life maybe. Or it could’ve easily been the stark, sad, desolation of the rain. But maybe, just maybe, she remembered such a time from her past.5

Sarah was a small, timid girl who stared at her feet. Her almost-extinct, rare smile was always preceded by a shy glance that subconsciously sought permission to smile: permission to be happy. This girl always had to seek permission for things. She was a caged animal. Her mouth always said what they wanted her to say, but inside, Sarah always screamed the truth. The despair. In the middle of the night, with the white quilt over her head, she said her words. She whispered her words. The despair. 6

Sarah’s mother never seemed to really care until it happened. Her almost-extinct, rare words were always preceded by the swigs she took from her ever-present bottle of bourbon. Sarah had never known the warm, loving woman that Sherry used to be. She had grown up believing that all mothers didn’t care. Sherry had short, curly, dark hair that bounced just under her ears. Her silver eyes always seemed faded and distant, as if life was slowly leaving them. She wore prim and proper dresses. The ones that were stained with bourbon were thrown out, and Sherry readily welcomed new ones into her life. Her curvy waist was thickening with all the food she ate to muffle the voice of her unhappiness. Her face was heavily freckled, as if they were the only remaining proof that there had been good times. A time when the sun had shone down on Sherry’s face, and she had welcomed it. Her existence was a desolate one, with the purpose of simply drinking. But she didn’t say so. She just drank.7

Sarah’s father cared too much. His daughter was clay that he shaped with his rough hands. Her life was his to own and manipulate. When he walked, he walked as a confident man. His leather shoes pounded the ground and his cold black eyes stared haughtily ahead of him. His shaved head was always prickly with the promise of black hair, as was his chin. He never failed to wear elaborate, tailored suits, reminding the flawed beings of his unquestionable superiority. James never smiled. His long face was always grim, as if smiling would make him seem more human. But in the eyes of his wife and daughter, he wasn’t human. He was a monster. 8

She woke up in hospital. Sarah woke up in hospital. She was in a white room, lying in a white bed, covered in white linen. In the flawlessly white room, a white doctor, who wore a white coat, watched the blue, flawed figure slowly realise where she was. In a soothing, deep voice, the brown haired, brown-eyed Dr. Matthews said, “Good morning miss. Did you sleep well?”9

“W-w-where am I?” she asked, wide eyed. She found it hard to speak. 10

“Alfred Hospital.” He smiled. “Do you remember what happened?”11

“No,” She said, while thinking, the only thing I can remember is not remembering.12

“Miss, you were found screaming in your sleep in an apartment on St Kilda Road, and we brought you here immediately.” He flipped the little notebook he held a few times before efficiently scanning the page. “A man by the name of James McDaniel came by a few hours ago claiming that you were his daughter. Is this the truth?” 13

“Uh yes.” Suddenly a gateway to her past had appeared. Someone wielding the key had come to see her. The key! Someone with the username and password to unlock her past. Someone who might have at some stage, been dear to her. James McDaniel. 14

A few hours after the brief conversation she’d had with Dr. Matthews, her father suddenly appeared. He had aged terribly. His eyes sagged. His once black head was now bald, and his lips drooped as if he were comically sad. He had permanent frown marks between his brows and his growing set of chins bulged. His tailored suit was as immaculate as ever. Instinctively Sarah began to tremble with fear. He approached her slowly and uncharacteristically wide eyed, he smirked, “Found you.” 15

Sarah started hyperventilating. The machine attached to Sarah started beeping wildly and the nurses rushed in. They ushered James out of the room, and he went, taking pleasure in her evident fear. As he exited the room he turned to her and mouthed the words, “I’ll be back.”16

With nurses hurriedly attaching an oxygen mask to her mouth, Sarah slowly drifted off into unconsciousness. This man had not been dear to her and never would be. “Found you.” “Found you.” “Found you.” His words echoed in her usually dreamless mind. Why was he looking for her? As soon as she had asked herself that question, it was answered. 17

At 13, Sarah’s older brother was taller, stronger and smarter than her. James delighted in this. He favoured Christopher over his daughter and even his wife. James answered to his every beck and call and showed no shame. When on the streets, people they knew would approach them and remark that they were the perfect family. James would nod his head and, proud as ever, go on to recall each and every single thing Christopher had succeeded in: his triumphs on the football field, the latest A+, all the 100%s on tests. He was flawless. Not like Sarah. He bore no resemblance to his sister and mother. He truly was his father’s son. 18

James had always known that Sarah wasn’t his. It was as obvious as the green of her eyes. As soon as Sarah’s life began, so did the beatings. Sherry was silent, but proud. Silent about the beatings. Silent about the despair. Proud that she’d had her freckled past. Proud that she’d had her three years with Jack. James never hit Sarah until it happened. But the cold, indifference with which she was treated was worse than the bruises she saw Sherry powder each morning. It would have been much better than feeling like she had no place in the world, better than believing her life to be worthless.19

Sarah was nearly 12 when it happened. Day after day she endured Chris. Inside of her a rage festered and grew. Her usual dreamlessness became twisted fantasies. Nighttime became darker than ever. When the sun grew tired of Earth at the end of the day, and abandoned it, darkness ruled in the eyes of the world and in the heart of Sarah. She imagined creeping up behind him, wielding a knife. She’d do away with him. Forever. Perpetually. Eternally. Everlastingly. Gone. Until one day, her dreams became reality. The thin line between truth and lies blurred, and for once, she was in power, she was on top of him, laughing as she slit his throat.20

James had walked in on them like that: the flawed being covered in the blood of the flawless being. Her eyes were wild and on her lips she had a smile. She smiled a crazed smile that wasn’t preceded by any shy glance. She did not seek permission on this day. On this day she demanded it. 21

James had run towards her, grabbing the knife out of her hands rather than grabbing his son. First he kicked her in the gut. She smiled. He broke her nose with his fist. She laughed. And so he came at her with the knife.22

It was at this moment that Sherry stumbled into the room, bourbon in one hand, and fear in the other. Surprising James, but Sarah most of all, she yelled some drunken gibberish and ran at him. As if all her life had been leading up to this one act of defiance, she kicked him in the groin and grasped the knife in one freckled hand. 23

Finally seeing her one and only chance to escape, Sarah ran. She staggered as quickly as her un-athletic legs would allow. She didn’t turn back to see the knife slice through her mother’s heart. She didn’t turn back to see the life finally leave her mother’s silver eyes. Like a crab deserting its shell when it was no longer of use, life slid out of the shell that was named Sherry.24

Sarah managed to escape on that day, as the rain fell down onto her path. It was amazing that she had. Death doesn’t discriminate. Like the rain, its power can fall onto almost anyone. Anyone can give it and anyone can be a victim. 25

When James McDaniel entered her room later that day, his eyes were alight with malice. He swaggered towards her slowly. Outside rain began to softly fall onto the grassy fields that preluded the hospital. Her father paused and gazed out the window for a moment, remembering just as she did, that night all those years ago. He turned his eyes towards hers, only to see them staring back at him. 26

It became all too much for him. When the heart is no longer filled, it fails. And that is what it did. How could such a heart continue to beat? Morality never seemed to sway him, after everything, it was old age that was the end of him. 27

As she had been doing for most of her life, she acted. She let out a scream of terror, when all she felt inside was that same satisfaction from 10 years ago. Nurses rushed into the room to find old James McDaniel lying there. They just assumed, due to his age, it was heart failure of a natural cause. Surely seeing his beloved daughter in such a state would be enough to trigger it. Surely. 28

In the morning she left the hospital. She became a doctor, got married, and had kids. The tears she had shed in the past diluted her memories. With time she knew that they were no longer truly valid and with time, she convinced herself that they were complete lies. Her unwanted memories were fragile, and just like last time, she eventually forgot. Each night as she went to sleep, she dreamed of the same dark nothingness, and suffered no emotions. 29

But when it rained, she always knew. When she heard the pitter-patter of rain on the roof, she smelled blood and she just knew. The smell of blood had buried itself in her mind, and like a ghost, it came out to haunt her. She never forgot it. Nobody can. So she spent the rest of her life running from the rain. The clouds would form overhead and chase her, it’d chase her like her brother used to, like her father used to, like the despair used to. Like the despair still did. Until one day, it caught up. And in death, she forgot all.