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Will Love Ever Save Me?

Novel By: XxalexandraxX

I am the rain. Rain does not feel love or hate, pain or pleasure, guilt or happiness. It just is. Its free to fall, free to move, free to be itself. The rain does nothing. I am the rain. And the rain cannot love. View table of contents...



Submitted:Nov 19, 2009    Reads: 174    Comments: 1    Likes: 1   

Will Love Ever Save Me?

Chapter one: Tragic Incarnation
December 4th, 1985
I DON'T REMEMBER what it was like when I was born, or what it felt like to gasp my first breath of life's blossomed air, or who the hell my mother was, but I know one thing for sure: I curse that day. I always thought that maybe in my past life I was a cat or a dog or some sort of house animal, and I loved my owners; but one day, I got the rabies from a neighbor's dog and I went crazy and killed my family. So in order to pay for my murders, God killed me and sent me into this human body to be tortured how ever He liked.
Or at least that's all I can think of. I'm five right now. Daddy tells me about God and the angels. Mostly when he's drunk - but he still tells me. He told me about Noah and the arch and how Noah gathered two of each kind of animals and saved them. I sometimes wish I could have been saved. But I don't think Noah likes me. Daddy says your heritage is everything and all a man really has is his name. Noah doesn't like me because of my name and who my parents are. But I don't think he understands that they aren't my real parents. I hate my foster parents.
Daddy's name is Steve and he works as a mechanic. He's gone all day and comes back with Hooter's breath. Mommy isn't any better. She's gone all day too. She says she works but she's always bringing home men who aren't Daddy. She whispers into my ear "When Daddy calls knock on the door, but never - never Pricilla, enter." She kisses my cheek and hurries back into the bedroom. I sit on the window sill and color. I draw a lot of pictures. I sometimes doodle out figures of mommies and daddies and make them smile a lot. The mommy and daddy in the pictures smile at me because they love me.
I lock up all of those pictures in my treasure chest where Mommy and Daddy can't find them. The always rip my pictures. They say art is for stupid depressed people who can't go out and make something of themselves. I try not to listen to them. One day, I fall asleep on the window sill while drawing the rain. I am using a broken gray crayon and coloring in the clouds when I stop and stare out the window and to the small drops of water pounding the ground. I wish I could be the rain.
Each drop is on their own free to flutter in the puddles. Nobody tells them what to do or how to act or what to believe. They are just themselves. They are the rain. I close my eyes thinking about that. And I fall asleep. Deeper and deeper I went into my dark dream as my cheek burned cold from the glass of the window. I felt at ease, I felt solitude, I felt quite. Even the moans from my mother's bedroom couldn't keep me from feeling like the rain. But when I was awoken, that was the worst feeling.
I heard Mommy scream. Her voice like that sent shivers through my blood. I open my eyes and look away from the window. I saw Daddy pull on her hair and smash her body into the wall. He yells "You fuckin' whore!" I notice that she is naked. Her dirty blonde hair is smothered in blood and she is crying hysterically. I just stare. I can't do anything. I am the rain; rain doesn't do anything. Another man comes out of the bedroom in crimson boxers. He yells at Daddy to get off of her. They start fighting, throwing fists into the air, making each other bleed. I cradle into the corner of the window. My back freezes with the cool glass pressed against it.
Daddy throws down the thin man and he falls on top of Mommy. She isn't moving, she isn't breathing. Daddy lights a cigarette and takes a low inhale. He doesn't see me. I'm invisible, just like the rain; clear, translucent, cold, small, wet, and alone. He doesn't see the rain. He takes a long drag and stares at the bodies on the floor. The man is moving barely, my mother bleeding and still. Daddy takes a bottle from the kitchen, opens it and pours it on them. I feel the smell wafting around me and I close my eyes, trying to lull it out. I open them a second later and watch as my father throws his cigarette on Mommy and the man.
They immediately flame and I hear a shrill of screaming. Daddy dispenses out of the small house seconds later. I am left. I stare at my Mommy and her friend being burned. I don't scream, I don't move, I don't do anything. I am the rain, and rain doesn't burn.
Rain doesn't do anything, it just is.


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