It is FRIDAY! the most celebrated day of the week (correct me if I am wrong). I only go to school Monday-Wednesday, so I don't get excited over Friday any more.
It was an okay week, I was happy to see friends and be my usual chatting self.
The story I am posting today, I wrote it when it was raining one day, this is when I write my best. You will notice if it was raining when I wrote a particular story, Just read hard, you will see. I hope you enjoy reading this story as much as I enjoyed writing it. Have a fantastic weekend and keep writing!
"I had hoped it would rain again, that violent outburst of liquid spewing from the sky makes me laugh. The trees bow, trying to dodge the lashes, but they are coming from every direction, hitting the leaves and parting the grass from the close rows they once had. There is satisfaction in watching the water rush through my yard while I sip black, rich, bitter coffee from the mug my husband gave me. He would’ve loved this war right now, and although I won’t be seeing him again, the rain brings back the love, and my heart swells with the memory of the first time he held my hand.
The first date is always nerve-wrecking; I toss clothes all over the carpet and scream in frustration. My mother appears at my door, and I hear her chuckle from behind the closed door. I laugh, and I hear the turn of a knob, and see her beaming oval face, with the loose waves falling over her shoulders and covering the scar over her left eye.
“This guy must really be special.”
“He’s the one ma.”
She laughed, because I had only met this guy last week, and already I was writing in the dating book. I chose the red dress that didn’t reveal too much. She gave me a nod of approval and then we sat in the living room waiting for the knock, and the tall, black haired boy with the dark eyes. The ticking of the clock was loud in the silence that enveloped the living Room. I shifted constantly, trying to hope for the best. I tried to keep the image out of my mind that I might just end up in bed with mascara stains on the white pillowcase.
The knock was a nervous one, my mother got up fast while I pretended to be in the bathroom. I heard the conventional introductions, and bit my fingernails, nearly taking my skin with it. She knocked on the door, I took a deep breath and walked slowly towards the boy, he seemed nervous as he guided me to the truck. It was the typical first date, small talk and full stomachs.
We were walking towards the truck in silence when I felt the first drop of rain. He grabbed my hand, and before we could make it, it came down and soaked us. I felt the squeeze of his hands, and the warmth of his laugh, and as I told my mother, he was the one.
They said we got married too fast, and that it would end. I thought that would happen when we tried for so long, and I woke up countless nights to blood stains on the sheets. He let me cry on the floor, and up to the night when he lay motionless on the hospital bed, there was no part of me he could call his own.
“Marsha,” Pity swirled around in her voice. I’m sure the nurse got tired of seeing me. I didn’t even bother to change my messed up nightgown. My red eyes didn’t concern the doctors anymore, and we sat like zombies, pale and expressionless when they told me my womb was too low. We grew apart for awhile, and kissed each other out of duty. I refused to look at parents and toddlers as I did the grocery shopping. He didn’t like the black I wore, that’s what he told his mother while I listened in the living room.
“But Henry-“she would say, and he would cut her off with the slam of the door. My heart jumped. We finally visited a counselor, and got back into old selves. We tried to adopt, and as cruel as it sounds, I didn’t want children anymore. We grew together, forming wrinkles and frown lines at the same time. We took pleasure in lying on the wet grass while the rain penetrated our skin, and would hold hands in silence and communicate with our thoughts.
It was a normal Sunday evening, the sunset was beautiful, and because he had gone fishing, I was forced to watch it alone. The dinner was getting cold and the darkness permeated through the halls, then I heard the thunder, and prayed, hoping he would come back soon. I called my mother and some relatives when the house shook with rainfall, thunder and lightning, but no one picked up. It was his same old hoarse voicemail when I dialed his number.
Midnight. Still no quiet knock and I accepted the worse. I didn’t sleep. In the morning, I heard a knock, but it wasn’t his. I opened slowly to men in black uniforms and a badge pinned to their breasts. They calmly said, “Ma’am follow us.” I rehearsed saying “yes, that’s his body”, but they turned into a hospital.
He wasn’t even pale lying on the bed, and his hands were still warm. I cried, not too much, because maybe he could still hear me. I stayed at nights, knitting a sweater for him to wear home. The next day I woke to the machine that tells if your heart was beating or not. I thought of a place to donate the sweater, as they covered him with the sheet. His fingers were warm, and they took them from me.
I told him bye, and I knew he heard me, when his heart was beating, and his eyes were closed."
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