Can't Stand the Rain

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

The incessant falling of rain beats out a monotonous rhythm on the windowpane. Every drop is reminiscent of a faraway memory, lost in the sorrow and fear. Fear of being turned away, fear of being wrong, fear of yourself.

The droplets stream across the glass, tracing ghostly lines on the misty surface. They travel from the top and glide down slowly and effortlessly to the bottom. It's so easy to get to the bottom. One minute you are perfect and gleaming, the next; dirty, spoiled, forgotten. Just one breath of wind and you've fallen off the edge.

You count them. As many as possible. Then they become lost in a blur of visions, mingling with each other. Flashes of the past. Shouting. Screaming. Regret. The raindrops flow so freely, oblivious of what surrounds them, independent. That's what you wanted. Independence. To be away from the others who would put you down, criticise you. They were wrong. You are right. No regrets.

Just emptiness.

A vast, hollow space of nothingness. Every day is the same repetitive routine. No fun or jokes that you can frown upon, yet laugh at inside. No friends to support you. No loving warmth from a family that cares. Just work. Constant work. The routinely job that helps you keep focus, forget that inside a storm of rage and despair is fighting to escape. Your wonderful job. Your cursed job.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

Why don't you go back? Apologise for all those things you said that you didn't mean. You never wanted to hurt them. You never meant to say those things. Yet somewhere deep down you felt a twisted sense of pleasure at seeing them crumble before you. You savoured the moment of elation when your mother's face screwed up in pain. You relished the sense of absolute power when your father could no longer argue with you. You loved the overwhelming sense of being independent, powerful, alone. The men at the Ministry welcomed you warmly, promoted you, and made you feel wanted. They offered you money - more money than you had ever had in your life. Enough to rent an apartment, to buy food, to live life on your own. People would respect you. The Minister's junior assistant! They should have been proud of you. They weren't.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

The rain keeps falling in the darkness. The enticing freedom that comes with the night seems to seep through the room, chilling you to the bone. Freedom. Power can give you freedom. You wanted that power. You sacrificed your family for it. You sacrificed your life for it. You have no life. Just emptiness.

Is it your pride?

Does your pride stop you from admitting that you were wrong?

The rain beats out a monotonous rhythm on the windowpane. Every drop is reminiscent of a faraway memory, lost in the sorrow and fear. It isn't too late. You can see the letter. Reach out to it. Admit that you were wrong. Throw away the pride. Go back. Come home, darling. Please just come home.

Drip.

It is too late.

Drip.

You can't go back.

Drip.

Come home, darling. Please just come home.

Drip.

Come home.