The Rain
By: Jaime Ertel

- Part 1 -

     Fifty-six hours it had rained; Keira had counted. Certainly not a light rain, or even a reasonable mix of storms and sprinkles, this rain had been a blow from some unknown, powerful force. Keira had yet to determine who, or what, this force was, or what it wanted from her. She did know, however, that the rain had been for her, and her alone.
     Keira had not planned to watch the rain or count the hours. She had, in fact, planned to visit her mother in Somerville for the weekend. But Friday morning, at six a.m., just as Keira was about to leave for work, the rain began.

     It gave no sign of warning. The weather report had predicted clear skies; now Keira watched out the window as the puddles in her driveway produced trickling rivers that ran together, flowing and winding, under the monstrous downpour. Silently she sat, fixated on the water pouring down from the endless region of clouds above. She sat in her white nightgown with the yellow ducks around the bottom. Chapped lips; bare feet; squinting, sleepy eyes -- Keira sat calmly on the side of her soft bed, feet resting atop the warm heater which ran along the baseboard. Her heart was heavy this morning, yet her mind, anxious: anxious for something, for a truth of some kind. She sat, anxious for the meaning behind the rain.
     Few thoughts entered Keira's mind for the first eight or nine hours. Her phone had rang three times; she had barely heard. The first call had been Merv, her boss at 8:11 a.m. Why hadn't she shown up at work this morning? Where was she? Was she sick? Did she need help? The second had been her mother, reminding Keira to call before she left for Somerville. And the third call had been a hang-up, possibly her boss or mother again. But Keira could think about nothing but the rain. Why wouldn't it stop? And why couldn't she stop watching? Her body had become tense, her mind uneasy. Something inside her was coming undone.
     Around 3:00 p.m. Keira left her bedside and wandered into the kitchen. She absentmindedly opened a can of minestrone soup and emptied it into a small, green pot. She turned the stovetop up to medium high and waited for her soup to bubble. Her eyes stared vacantly out the sliding glass door. Here in the kitchen, she could see the rain in an entirely new light. From here, she could see that the rain came down at a slight angle. She watched as it drenched her small cement sidewalk and the flowers planted alongside it. The small orange and yellow marigolds wilted under the weight of the shower.
     As minutes passed, she became focused on one flower above the rest -- a vivid, yellow marigold at the end of the row. It seemed to be holding up better than most of the others. It bent slightly towards the house but for the most part, stood tall and strong against the downpour. Keira almost smiled as she watched this particular flower, until suddenly, with no forewarning, the beautiful marigold snapped. Its once strong stem was now cracked in the middle. The precious yellow petals lay cold in the wet dirt.
     Keira's stomach knotted and twisted, while a deluge of painful, confusing images filled her head. She saw a man -- a young man with graying hair and dark, shadowed eyes. She saw herself, she saw herself screaming, she saw the lamp on her bedside table. Nausious, she squirmed and fought -- one hand pinned while the other was beating on the back of his head.
     Nearly ten minutes later, Keira awoke from this unknown intensity which had invaded her mind. From where had those images emerged? Who was the man in her head? Soup was spilling over the sides of the green pot and running down the stove. Keira's teeth were chattering. The clock was chiming. The rain continued to fall.
     After the first fifteen hours of rain, after Keira had eaten her soup only to vomit it into the sink, the phone rang again. This time, she answered. Her mother demanded to know where she was; she had been worrying sick. Keira flatly explained that she had come down with a flu bug, that she would not be able to make it this weekend. No entirely convinced, her mother hung up the phone.
     Back in her bedroom, she dully stared past her reflection in the window and watched as the soggy grass glistened in the moonlight. The moon had turned the whole world an eerie palette of blues and grays. Through the fierce shower, Keira believed that she saw a pair of eyes in the night -- dark, shadowed eyes. Closing her eyes and clenching her fists, she buried her face in lavender pillows and sobbed herself to sleep.

     At six a.m., the following morning, Keira awoke to the howling of the dark downpour. Had she even slept? It was though she had never fallen asleep. She couldn't remember even a moment where the rain had stopped falling. Every drop that fell throughout the night had drenched her dreams, her mind, her thoughts. She could not escape the saturating embrace of the rain.
    The rain had changed. No longer the chilly blue and grays from the night before, the world was now a torrent of immense, blood-red swirls.

- Unfinished -