lighting in a bottle

Chapter Three

When the thunderstorm first hits, there's no lighting. Just loud rumbles that make Buck jump from time to time. He tries to sleep, but when that doesn't work from the constant jumping-from-his-bed and mini heart attacks, he decides to grab a beer and sit on his armchair.

He attempts to watch TV, but the constant thunder mixed with voices of shows and films make him overwhelmed and a bit nauseous. So here he is. A 6'2 firefighter sitting silently in his living room, drinking a beer because he's scared of fucking lighting.

Maybe he is ten years old.

Then, the lighting starts. At around 1:00 AM, Buck is properly ready to shit his pants. The bright lights flashes through Buck's window. He feels woozy.

Buck gets up from his chair, as he stands he finds his legs shaking, they feel like jello. It's hard to walk. He limps over to the kitchen counter and takes a seat.
It feels like there's an elephant on his chest.

He's having a panic attack. He's seen it enough to know what it is. Even so, Bucks seemed to forget every single method he's ever known to calm down one. So, he sits on his kitchen stool for about one hour hyperventilating before he starts to get to the normal rhythm that is breathing. When he gets up, he stumbles and plops on his armchair.

Buck can't seem to get to sleep, the entire night, he's holding his chest and checking his pulse. The exhaustion ends up getting to him because he somehow opens his eyes and the sun is shining.

—

Buck was planning on doing a lot today, his own fault for not checking the weather. However, maybe he shouldn't be scared of the weather, maybe that would solve the problem.

He gets his groceries, as he walks out of the store, he notices the cloudy skies, mucky air and odor that comes only when it rains. After a storm.

He hates the rain. Always have. Buck likes the feeling of the warm, bright sun seeping through his window. Not gloom and doom! Making his loft completely and totally dark.

The lighting incident only validated that feeling. Rain not only puts him in a bad mood but now reminds him of something he'd rather forget. Dying.

As Buck carries the milk under his arm and two bags on the other, he hears his name being faintly yelled out.

"Buck!" He turns to see Christopher, his hand intertwined with Carla.

"H-hey guys!" He tries his best to sound as enthusiastic and well-rested as he can.

They start walking towards each other, "Buckaroo, how have you been doing?" Carla asks, her voice is homey, like warm honey on a Saturday morning. Seeing Clara after not seeing her for a while is weirdly nostalgic, and not the good kind.

"Good, yeah." He clings on his brown paper bag. So hard, almost breaking the eggs. He tries to smile. Might be smiling a bit too hard.

He clears his throat. "So, Chris, how was that math quiz?"

"Good! I got a 97!" He exclaims. "Not that it was any of your help." He says slyly with a smirk. Definitely his fathers son.

Carla and Buck chuckle at the remark, "Hey!"

A random drip of water falling right on the tip of his nose, he looks up.

"Might be starting to rain again." He mutters.

"I hate the rain!" Chris pauses "Dad likes it, he says it's calming. How can the rain be calming?"

"Yeah, I know what you mean." Buck mutters.

As Chris continues to rant about his fathers opinion, Buck looks up at the sky. He sees a bright white flash though the sky. His stomach drops. His face runs pale. He practically flinches.