Rain (Rain a short story)

by Watson, Michelle

“She cuts herself.”

  My brows pull in confusion. “What are you talking about?”

  “Nikki. She cuts herself because of me. I can’t…I can’t live with myself if she dies because of me. So I decided to stay with her, you know, until she gets stronger.”

  “It’s fine. We’re best friends. We should stay best friends. Why mess that up?”

  He sighs, exasperated. “Damn. This is not how I expected my Saturday night to go. Alright. I guess you’re right for now. Sorry about the car, I’ll pay for it.”

  “No. Zack says he’s got me.”

  “Well, I still don’t like him.”

  “I still don’t like her,” I counter.

  “Fair enough. She’s back from the bathroom. I’ll call you tomorrow?”

  “Sure.”

  “Listen, what happened between us—”

  “It is fine,” I say, cutting him off. “Let’s pretend it never happened.”

  “But it did, Rain,” he murmurs as if pained. “I can’t pretend when I can still feel your soft lips on mine, when I can still taste your sweet breath, when your caress still lingers on my skin.”

  “Tate, we can’t.” My voice is strained just like my heart. I lift myself up and stare into Zack’s gleaming eyes that are blazing with a passion I’ve never known.

  “Right now we can’t. The future is still untold…I was thinking maybe after clinicals we can take a trip up to L.A. I miss my family, too.”

  “Sounds good.” Zack’s hands run down the line of back, squeezing my backside, making me gasp. He’s getting impatient.

  “We’re just a couple of kids trying to carve our own way into this world.”

  “I can’t argue you with that.”

  He inhales deeply, and I hear Nikki’s voice in the background. I can’t make out what she’s saying, though. “Talk to you later, Rain.”

  “Goodbye, Tate.”

  The End…

  (For now)

  Chapter one of Pure Illusion

  Lights Out

  Today is the last day of the rest of my life. I’ve lost the fight to live and the struggle of breathing every day is just too much to bear. This emptiness within me can’t be filled with anything that has sustaining power. I wish seeing the sunrise every morning was enough, enough to make me change my mind, enough to keep me here. But it’s not. Even when the brightest star shines its halo on me, my eyes see nothing. My eyes are as vacant as my soul; every ounce of my being feels stripped, bare, and left exposed to the harsh elements of life.

  Fragile.

  Talk of me, Isabel Charm Waters, will spread like wildfire. I’m proving everyone is this small-town of Cherry Creek, North Carolina, right. I’m the little weak girl that would snap at any moment after my brother’s horrific suicide.

  His name was Tyler Casimir Waters.

  I watch idly as Tyler’s brown teddy bear floats face down on top of the surface of the murky water, near the end of the tub. The bath I’ve ran for myself has gone cold, as cold as the blood slowly pumping in my veins. With as much energy that I can muster, I try to reach for it but my arms are too numb and heavy to lift. Giving up, I sink further back into the tub, allowing my muscles to unclench and relax. The water is overlapping my nose. I can feel my heart beating. It should be wild and deafening but it’s so slow; a mellow melody of death. Once the song ends though, there will be no replay or encore of any kind, just silence.

  All I want is silence.

  My eyes shift to the empty bottle of sleeping pills on the bathtub countertop. Suicide doesn’t happen like it does in the movies. It isn’t instant, lights out, unless, of course, you’re brave enough to pull a trigger and blast a bullet through your brain.

  You have to wait for the blackness to swallow you whole. The worst part is waiting on death to happen. The peace you want is there, within arm’s reach, but it’s taking its leisurely time to put you out of your misery. Even when you stoop to this level of desperation, you still don’t get the satisfaction of getting what you desire when you desire it the most.

  Please just take me.

  I’m ready.

  I’m ready.

  I’m ready.

  Closing my heavy lids, I begin to drift away, my heart faintly thudding in my chest. It’s a fading tempo that I can’t keep tabs with.

  Black.

  Then reality.

  Silence.

  Then the sound of a weakening heart and labored breaths.

  Nothing.

  Then a fragmented view of everything.

  A voice calls to me as I float in and out of consciousness.

  It’s a real voice.

  “Isabel!”

  That voice.

  That voice wants me to live.

  “Isabel!”

  The voice gets closer as I drift further.

  “Isabel! Please, please, please open your eyes.”

  I’m so sorry.

  Darkness.

  Then the heat of someone’s fingers wrapped fully around my upper arms as they settle behind me in the tub. The heat is burning my skin. My body slumps against someone’s solid frame. Whoever’s behind me has an intense fire within. Their flame is scorching me. “Isabel, baby, open your eyes.” That voice sounds as hopeless as I feel.

  I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m just tired.

  Stillness and then movement.

  Warm fingers are forced down my throat; searing vomit sprays everywhere, on me, on my unidentified angel.

  Everything comes back and hits me like a freight train and it is pure agony.

  The oxygen I’m tussling to inhale whistles through my chest and scalds my deflated lungs. Salt from fresh tears fill my slack mouth as I whisper incoherent things, as I release my secrets and tell someone my every fear, my every dream, my every tragedy. My body can’t stop shaking around the pleasant warmth that surrounds me.

  A soft kiss on my left shoulder is want I get in return; that kiss burns right through the layers of skin and soaks into my bones.

  Except that kiss is more than just a kiss. It’s a kiss of promise, a kiss that sets my soul ablaze.

  “Isabel, I have to get you out this tub.”

  That voice!

  I know that voice.

  Please let it be anyone other than that voice.

  Realization seeps through the thick haze that blankets my brain and my eyes move to the long, lean pant legs on either side of me and down to grey Vans sneakers that are by my feet, at the end of the tub that’s filled with Tyler’s teddy, dirty water, chunky, foamy white vomit.

  I burst into tears at this hopeless situation.

  It’s him.

  Why did it have to be him?

  The next thing I know, I’m hauled up into strong arms and carried away into my room. I keep my eyes close tight, refusing to witness any of it, refusing to accept him as my savior.

  He gingerly lays me down on my bed, then moves somewhere within the confines of my bedroom. He’s back with a towel.

  My heart is erratic as he swipes the fuzzy material down the length of my body. He dries every nook and cranny: my hair, my armpits, my belly. But when he wipes between my legs, I inhale sharply, a surge of desire strikes me and leaves my flesh tingly. I feel my body respond to him; I’m getting wet. Aroused. His movements are gentle but very certain and precise. It still doesn’t stop my tears and countless pathetic whispers of protest.

  He ignores me as he rummages through my chest of drawers. A short moment later, delicate cotton is dragged up my ankles. “Lift your hips,” he orders, firmly moving them up my legs.

  Obeying but still crying, I do.

  After he puts my panties on, he slides some loose jeans up my legs and zips and buttons them. Then I hear him searching through my drawers again. “Can you sit up?”

  I don’t answer him.

  “Isabel?”

  Nothing comes out.

  His weight sinks in the mattress as he sits beside me. He lifts me towards his lap and tugs on my br
a, strapping all the hooks it in place, putting my shirt, socks, shoes, and jacket on me after.

  What is he doing here?

  He’s the reason I have scars up my arms.

  He’s half the reason I want to die.

  “Please leave,” I murmur, eyes still closed tight, voice hoarse and raw.

  “No,” he says after a heartbeat. He places the hood of my jacket over my head after zipping it up, and then he sweeps me in his arms like a wounded pet. “I’m taking you home with me.”

  “Please leave,” I repeat numbly.

  “No, Isabel. I’m not leaving you. I’ve done enough of that already.”

  Warmth I shouldn’t feel spreads too quickly, eating away at the ice in my chest.

  “Please leav—”

  “No! Stop speaking. Just let me care of you. Please.”

  Swallowing thickly, I press my lips together as he carries me through the house, outside in the cold rain and into his truck. His truck smells of spicy cinnamon mint and cologne and something magical that’s all Hunter.

  Hunter Knight.

  The beautiful boy with the blond hair and crystal-clear blue eyes and sun kissed skin.

  Hunter Knight.

  The boy I loved since third grade.

  Hunter Knight.

  The boy who mercilessly smashed my fragmented heart into dust.

  Hunter Knight.

  The blackness that clouded my light.

  He straps me in and then slams the door.

  The door to the driver side opens. He glides in, bringing the engine to life. “Please get the bear,” I say to the window.

  “What?”

  “The bear—get the bear from the tub. Please.”

  He doesn’t sigh or give any impression that he’s losing patience, though I don’t know the exact expression on his face because my eyes are still clamped shut. The door swings open; the hinges make a loud squeaking noise because of old rust. I hear foots steps splash against the rain puddles as he heads towards my empty house. Then I hear nothing but the sound of the rain heavily drumming steadily against the roof of his red Chevy truck.

  A moment later, Hunter returns, slamming the truck door behind him. He tosses a plastic bag that contains Tyler’s soggy bear on my lap and drives off.

  Pure Illusion out now by Michelle Watson!