Sinking

cascade

I woke up to the sound of raindrops plummeting against my roof.

I'd never really liked rain all that much. It wasn't really because of the fact that it got everything wet and messed up my hair, but because I couldn't help but think that the world was crying. When it rained, you couldn't see the colors in the sky or breath in the fresh air. Everything was washed out, grey.

I'd met a lot of people that had told me they loved the rain. They said it was poetic, that when they felt the drops spattering around them there was something peaceful about it, as if the sky was allowing a calm sense to spread around the town.

But the rain reminded me of a certain day a long time ago. And I didn't like to be reminded.

Soon enough, I heard the front door slam shut, meaning Adrian had just left, and that was my warning that if I wanted to be on time for school, I had to walk out the door in ten minutes. I had nothing to do in the morning, but I always took long to pull on my one pair of jeans and straighten my curly hair.

I was done with both of those things within seven minutes before grabbing my bag, phone, and keys, slowly padding down the stairs on light feet. The house was empty and I could feel it, the dust in the air cold, my skin pale where I could see it in the darkness of our hallway. A stair creaked when I landed on it wrong, but I ignored the sound as I continued towards the door.

I stepped outside, quickly pulling my umbrella over my head as I trudged down the driveway, shoes splashing in small puddles no matter how lightly my feet settled with each step.

My gaze wandered upward when I heard shouting, my legs coming to a stand still when I realized it was coming from Phil's door. I looked over, watching the rain cascade around me, the drops bouncing against the gravel.

I saw then, as the boy exited his house violently, the way he was breathing heavily, the way his hands were clenched into fists so tight I was sure his nails were cutting crescents into his palms, and I wasn't sure what to think. Each time I'd seen Phil Lester do anything, it had been with a gentle look at the world, his eyes holding mysteries and wonder that I was sure I would never discover.

Phil had always been so calm. Free.

But here he was, breaths ragged as his feet slapped against the sidewalk, splashing water up onto his legs. He didn't seem to care.

It was dark because of the rain clouds, but just before he turned to walk in front of me I was nearly completely sure I saw a purple and blue stain on his jaw.

***

It was now the end of my second to last class, meaning it was off to my last class: art. I was glad, considering some work we'd done today had been stressful, and I couldn't seem to get the way Phil had looked this morning out of my mind.

The image was constantly there, the way his eyes had for once looked something other than fearful or gentle.

An idea for a painting popped into my mind suddenly, one of a hand with fingernails digging into the skin, and I stashed it away for later.

My bag was resting lightly on m shoulder, my hand brushing against the strap as I kept my head down, not making eye contact with a single soul. It was my usual thing I did. I didn't like looking at people, and I didn't like people looking at me. I especially didn't like people talking to me, considering that always meant they expected me to reply.

But I haven't spoken a word to anyone in six years, not since that day.

I was not mute or anything. And my vocal cords weren't damaged because sometimes, late at night, I would open my window and I would sing, or read one of my stories out loud.