Rain

By Aarav Kumar

I could have died for an umbrella.

Raindrops landed and formed queues on stray strands of hair, and then trickled down a face clouded by anxiety.  Howling gusts of wind captured me in their cold snare, rooting me to my position.  I felt a chill run up my spine; the slender fingers of a phantom were slinking across my shoulders, trying to pull me into the darkness.  But my inner skeptic shrugged it off; ghosts are for children.  The dimly lit façades of innumerable, seemingly deserted skyscrapers lined my way; I'd have savoured the royal feeling had it not been for the downpour.  Suddenly, I heard a broken, low-pitched scream across the block.

I stopped.  

Never mind, just a very loud motorcycle.

I walked on.  No time could be lost; it was dark, and everyone knew how dangerous it was in the dark.  Yet, for all my urgency, I couldn’t help but occasionally freeze in the middle of the road to soak in the rhythmic pitter-patter of the rain, interspersed with the honk of a far-off car.

I took a sharp turn and emerged onto the main square.  The Crocs were digging into my heels.

Sigh; if only I’d been in time for the 9 o' clock bus.  

The fountain in the centre was pearly white, with hideous gargoyles carved into the main column.  It was only barely visible under the curtain of black, but occasionally, a dim, flickering streetlamp would illuminate it in an eerie glow.  The gargoyles were well-made, but that night, they looked alive- prepared to break free from their marble cysts, and embrace their demon overlords gathering in the sky.

The stinging sensation in my heel was getting worse; I really should not have worn Crocs.  A little rest would’ve been nice, but the silhouettes on the bench, the contours of their face hidden by hoodies, did not look like welcoming company.  I decided to take the longer route across the garden.  The wet mud released an oddly satisfying odour.  If I had been on time, I would’ve strolled around longer.

Oh well, the smell of fresh, home-cooked lasagna was more appealing. 

The rain was getting worse.  I began running; home was barely a block away- I'd make it soon, damn the Crocs, and damn the pain.  My eyes locked in on the warm yellow light emanating from the apartment.  I might’ve shoved a few passers-by aside in my entrancement.  They shot angry glances at me from under their polka-dot umbrellas, blissfully unaware of the pain of a man without anything to shield him from nature’s watery fury.  

I never knew a bell-shaped piece of canvas could be so philosophical a thing.

I slammed the door behind me, shrugged off the soaking jacket and the Crocs, and trudged towards the kitchen.  There it was- the lasagna.  The spoon pierced through the sheets of pasta, unleashing a flood of cheese and vegetables.  But there was no smell of lasagna now, only of an earthy petrichor.

By Aarav Kumar