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"A Piece of Irish Rain" by Susangail

Started by susangail, June 22, 2008, 11:23:53 PM

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susangail

So I wrote this story. It's been in my head for a long time. I finally got in down and I want people to read it (preferable people I don't know  ;) )

Keep in mind it is very, very rough and has a lot of fine-tuning in it's future.

Enjoy!


QuoteA Piece of Irish Rain

“Tell me.”
“Tell you what?” She tried to fool him.
“You know what.” It didn’t work. She sighed.
“I really don’t know. Every time I think about it, my mind puts up like a brick wall that I can’t break through.”
They were lying with their feet opposite each other and heads together, staring at the ceiling. He could see inside of her. Feel what she was feeling.
He took her hand. “It’s alright.” His accent was soothing.
She sat up and turned her head, afraid of what her tears would reveal. He moved her long black hair away from her neck and put his hand on her cheek. Her tears were pouring. He let them run. She needed this.
“I’m right here Hannah. I’ll always be here.”


*   *   *

She woke up with tears in her eyes. But they weren’t the same tears. The tears from her dream were years old, a fading memory. She had too much sleep in her eyes. They wouldn’t stay open.

*   *   *

They were lying in the same position, but on a field of lush green grass this time. The stars were shining bright through the overcast cloudy sky, somehow. It was impossibly beautiful.
They were silent, staring at the curious sky. The rain poured but they didn’t move. They were laughing. Smiling across the sky.
“It’s painting a picture for you Raingirl, the sky is.”
“Are you the artist Irishboy?”
“Don’t you know it?” More laughter.


*   *   *

She woke again. She wasn’t any less tired. She had slept all day. The ceiling stared at her, burning into her eyes. She stared back until she was sure the popcorn would drop and blind her.
She remembered the mail, days of it pushing the volume capacity of her box. She grabbed the key and didn’t bother with shoes or a jacket.
She looked two floors down to the parking lot from her shared balcony. A single thick bush crowded the lot in an attempt to make the bleakness of it less noticeable. It lied. She hated it. She was the empty parking lot and the bush mocked her pain. She was inches from jumping into the horrible thing and tearing it apart. But the treacherous pavement sided with the bush. They would win. She knew that. They would be the death of her. She knew that.

The cold, oil-reeked night air made her decision for her as it pierced her neck and threatened to choke her. She protected it with her blanket of hair and began the journey to the mailbox. Two steps. Her head pounded. Three steps. She felt the world race to turn around in twenty-four hours. The cement under her feet danced. Four steps. She saw through glasses ten times too thick for her eyes.
 
Then she heard the silent footsteps. Or maybe it was the break in the cold breeze as it tried to rip through something, someone. She looked up. She let out a breath she had been holding for three years. Her stomach collapsed. Her legs failed her. It was impossible. She had the patriotic triangle of death in a box on the mantle. It was impossible.
He ran to her and saved her head from the pavement that longed to bleed it. His hands were rough and awkward, like they didn’t remember how to hold her. She looked at his face. It was hard. His blue eyes were cold, lifeless.
What have they done to him? They took my Aidan and sent back his corpse. Her mind screamed. Hate. What have they done to him?
“Shh.” His voice woke her. “It’s alright Hannah, it’s me.”
Speechless. Her voice choked.
“It’s alright Raingirl.” His tone was softer. He laughed, less than halfheartedly. Her laugh followed suit.
The last long-held breath left her lungs. She cried aloud. He held her close. He was there. Somehow. But he was aged. His eyes had seen more than anyone’s of twenty-five ever should. They looked passed her when they looked at her. They were distant and in hers at the same time.

They were inside. Their hands were never solitary. They were lying in the same position. Silent. Time came and went, and neither could grasp the passing seconds. How long had they been there, motionless, lifeless?
They slept. For how long, neither knew. He shook. He was cold. She couldn’t warm him. His eyes couldn’t see her. They saw fire. She was fire. He backed away. Screamed. She didn’t understand.

He slept again. She couldn’t. How many weeks had passed? Who is this man? He was raw, broken open and his blood was dripping onto her.
Please Irishboy. He didn’t move. He was cold.

She went out to the balcony again. Nothing had changed. But time moved on. She was frozen but it continued. It was evil, like the bush below. Time mocked her. It mocked him. But he didn’t know it. He couldn’t know it.
He was always the Kleenex to make her tears disappear. Always. Now he needed her. She left the balcony and went to him.
They would be together, side-by-side, in the comforting silence, underneath a warm blanket of safety. Forever.

*   *   *

She sat up.
“Where did you go Aidan?”
“It’s still me Raingirl.” He put his head on hers. “I’m exactly the same, just a little different.”
She laughed. “Do you know what ‘exactly’ means?”
“You get too caught up on words.”
“I’m a writer, we do that time to time.”
“How many times have I told you to leave your work at work?”
“How do you know I’m not working now?”
He held her palms prisoner. “Because I have your hands.” His breath whispered in her ear.
“You win.” No better response on her tongue.
“Not ‘til I have your eyes.”
She looked up. His burned into hers.
“Draw.”

A minute passed. A year passed. A lifetime in each of their eyes.


*   *   *

She awoke with clouds in her eyes. She was staring at the ceiling. But the threatening popcorn was flat. Florescent lights decorated it. The room was small. Her bed was thin. Aidan must have redecorated her apartment while she was asleep. The radio was on, though it was a strange station: a din of voices, rings, and sirens. She waited for him to appear. This joke needed an explanation.
A woman came in. She was wearing a strange, flowery shirt far too large for her and plain, unflattering pants that resembled sweats, only lighter. Was she part of the joke?
The woman said something, but not to her. She said it across her chest. Hannah turned her head and saw a man. But it wasn’t Aidan. He was wearing a long white coat and was carrying a clipboard. She noticed her own apparel for the first time: a thin, ugly dress, or maybe a nightgown. Irishboy, what’s going on?
She got a better look around. Food pyramids and diagrams of the circulatory system were the wall-art of choice. Needles were in her arms. Bloody wounds and bandages danced across her body. The bush entered her mind as fast as her hate for it.
She went cold. She flung herself upright as if a spring in her hips had come un-done. They pushed her down.
He was gone. He wasn’t there. She lost the battle.
She screamed, but they didn’t hear her. She lost her breath. Her heart raced. She kept screaming, louder and louder. She screamed his name.
Then she stopped. All of her stopped. Her heart made a drone. They heard it this time.
When life gives you lemons, make orange juice and let the world wonder how you did it.