30 Reasons To Read

Episode 7: The Rain

I’ve always been terrified of water. Not just water bodies, plain and still water unsettles me too. It's odd, though. A glass of water doesn’t faze me, but a large bucket? That’s enough to send shivers down my spine. And rain, rain is the worst.

It was one of those gloomy evenings, darker than usual, the kind that seeps into your bones. I wasn’t thinking about the weather at all, though. I was sprawled across the couch, lost in thought, mentally preparing for the end of my vacation. College was reopening in a week and I was dreading it.

Suddenly, a heavy downpour crashed onto the roof, cutting in the tranquil atmosphere. I stared blankly at the ceiling, trying to tune it out, but the loud, insistent pounding dragged me back to reality. That’s when I heard footsteps. Mom burst out of her bedroom, still groggy from her afternoon nap. My heart dropped as I realized why she was up.

"Go get the clothes!" she yelled, her voice sharp, with the usual undertone of disappointment in how irresponsible I was.

Panic welled up inside me. "Mom, I’m scared!" I pleaded. She always ignored my fear for water, dismissing it as silly. This time was no different.

She waved her hand dismissively, rushing toward the backyard. "Don’t be ridiculous! It’s just rain. You can't let the clothes soak. They’ll get ruined!"

"Mom, I can’t!" My voice was shaky, my heart pounding.

"No excuses!" Her tone made it clear that the conversation was over. I was going up there, whether I liked it or not.

I sighed, glancing toward the staircase that led to the terrace. The dim, rain-soaked evening made it look like a tunnel into darkness. My hand shook as I flicked the switch. Nothing. The bulb was out. Perfect. A power cut.

Realizing my phone wasn’t on me, I knew I couldn’t afford to waste time looking for it. If Mom came back and saw I hadn’t brought in the clothes, I’d never hear the end of it. My pulse quickened as I took a deep breath and started up the stairs, the sound of the rain growing louder with each step.

The uneasiness in my gut deepened, my palms sweating. I reached the iron gate of the terrace and fumbled with the latch. It clicked open, and I pushed the door wide. The sight of the clothes drenched in the storm sent a chill through me. A flood of irrational fears crowded my mind and none of them made sense, but all of them terrified me. I was scared, truly scared. But I had no choice.

I took a deep breath and sprinted out into the rain, grabbing a couple of clothes before rushing back inside. The few droplets that touched my skin felt like icy fingers crawling down my arms, heightening my anxiety. I paused, gathering the courage for the next trip.

This pattern repeated three or four times, each dash more nerve-wracking than the last. Finally, I had all the clothes. I slammed the gate shut and locked it, breathing a sigh of relief. I gathered the pile of clothes, hurried down the stairs, and made my way into the hallway that led to the living room. It was pitch black.

"Mom?" I called out, feeling my way along the walls as I headed toward the living room, where we usually kept a bucket for laundry. I found the bucket near the wooden swing and dropped the clothes inside. As I turned to look toward the backdoor, I noticed it was closed.

"Mom?" I called again, louder this time. The only response was the relentless pounding of the rain. My heartbeat quickened. Where had she gone?

I searched around in the dark for my phone, but it was nowhere to be found. My breathing grew ragged, the oppressive darkness and the weight of the storm outside pressing in on me. I hadn’t heard the backdoor open or close, so where was she?