I Find Peace In The Rain

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
How would you feel to be death? How would you feel to do and see what he/she has to see? This is my perspective on the duty of death and one of his/her many trials.

Submitted: May 12, 2017

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Submitted: May 12, 2017

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I found peace in the rain.

My trench coat drenched by the precipitation, my cold breath clouding around the liquid.

The street light was a spotlight hovering above me.

I had blinked away the last tear hours ago, and yet I couldn’t move. The sun had faded behind the clouds, the thunder had rattled through my being, and as I stood under the street light and the rain started to fall my feet would not carry me towards my destination. So I watched.

I watched through the dining room window as the table was set and the children were called. The platter was placed before the husband, as the wife kissed the top of his head and rushed around to the other side of the table to take her seat. As they bowed their heads, I looked away.

It was not easy being me, but I found peace in the rain.

I watched as the family ate their meal, the children secretly passing food to the dog under the table, and I couldn’t help but smile. Such innocence; such young beautiful minds… and soon one of them would follow me back into darkness.

I crossed the street and stood behind the oak tree which had grown for many years in the front yard of the house of the family. It did not matter if I hid. They could not see me anyhow, and yet I peeked out from around the trunk of the tree and watched silently, savoring the cold precipitation that soaked through my coat. Here the rain had a harder time penetrating the leaves of the tree to reach me, and I could already feel the claws of time wrapping around me. It wouldn’t be long now.

The children, all but one, cleared the dishes from the table and carried them into the next room. The youngest one, who could have been no more than 6 years old, remained seated in her chair; her chin hardly higher than the table itself. Even from this distance I could see the dark circles under her big eyes. She blinked slowly as she looked at her untouched plate. Her father stood from his chair to sit beside her. He put a gentle hand on her back, and she turned to look up at him, tears falling from her eyes. It was then I noticed I was silently weeping again. The pain was obviously as he picked her up from her chair like an infant, and cradled her close to his chest, lightly kissing her forehead. Her mother had not looked up from her folded arms, which were resting on the table, her lips a grim line of despair. It was not until after the man carried the child from the room, a vicious cough shaking her tiny, weak form, that the woman lost control, the tears falling onto the backs of her hands.

I wanted to slip from the old oak tree and cower in the rain again, but I knew the time had come.

I approached the house, gliding over the wet grass, to the far bedroom window. The only light in the room was from the soft glow of a bedside table lamp. The walls were illuminated, bouncing off soft pink and grey chevron wallpaper. A matching bed spread and half a dozen pillows were propping up the father, who was holding his young daughter. He was stroking the limp, damp curls out of her face, as her ragged breath hitched every couple of seconds behind the plastic mask of the breathing machine. He was mumbling a countdown, the sadness in his eyes outweighing the cheerfulness of the room. He sighed heavily as he removed the mask from his daughter.

Oh, how I ached to turn my back to the room and move on into the night, but that was not my job, and I could not leave this dwelling alone.

The mother appeared in the doorway of the room, her eyes now dry. Any sign of worry had dissipated along with the tears. Her husband glanced over his shoulder and gestured to the young girl, beckoning his wife to her side. She simply shook her head no and backed from the room into the dark hallway. The man would have to face this alone. Shifting his youngest child onto the bed, he stood and looked down at her. It was then that I noticed the slight tremble of his bottom lip, and his breathing was starting to shake his shoulders as he picked up one of the pillows and began cradling it to his chest. Several minutes passed as I watched the man. I could tell there was a strong conflict of regret and hopelessness raging within him, his soul screaming for him to turn from the girl, his head coaxing him to do what he and his wife had discussed. There was no help for her. 

He knelt beside the girl and placed his head on her chest, closing his eyes slowly and listened to her failing lungs, attempting to suck in the dreaded oxygen her body no longer wished to receive. He pulled back and blinked slowly at the child. Mumbling a last, “I love you.”

Then, the pillow he had been cradling was slowly placed over the sleeping child’s face. He waited. The young girl’s body began to twitch weakly; hardly putting up a fight as her father looked away, willing it to be over quickly.

And then it was.

I felt as she took my hand gently, and I looked down to my side at the child who had been no more than 6 years old. In the soft illumination of the bedside table light, I could see color to her cheeks, and fresh, bouncing curls. There was no sign of the dark circles under her eyes, and when she smiled at me, two dimples appeared in her cheeks. Squeezing her hand slightly, we turned from the window of her bedroom towards the darkness, and took peace in the rain as we vanished into the night.


© Copyright 2017 Rachellynns93. All rights reserved.

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