Rain Rain - (Completed)

Rain Rain

"Rain, rain, go away. Come again another day." A light trickle falls, a giggle is heard with the bouncing of a ball across the slippery street before a horn blasts and the unforgettable screeching of tyres. My heart plummets as a shrill scream pierces the air.
I sit up right. Sweat beads on my forehead and pools around my body. Lungs seeming not to get enough air as they heave. In, out, in, out. Oxygen fills me. My lips and throat dry and the unsettling feeling of a psychological lump forms to block the airway. Swallowing several times, I turn to my bedside clock and the red lights shine 4:23am.
I close my eyes and drop back down to the mattress, wherefore a pillow was until meeting the floor.
"Another nightmare. Just another nightmare."
Thunder booms and lightning fills the neighbourhood in a pure white glow casting eerie shadows. So temporary. Heavy water droplets cascade to the pavements and pummel my window.
"Rain, rain. Please, go away."

ᴥᴥᴥᴥᴥ

"So this is the seventh night in a row?"
"Yes" I respond.
"The same dream?"
"Yes."
"Of the deat..."
"Yes."
There was a long silence as Dr. Martin stared intently at me.
"Andrew, look. Having nightmares about these events are nothing to be worried about. Everybody deals with trauma differently..."
"Is it normal to 'deal' with it three years post-trauma?" I question. I look down at the half empty Styrofoam cup. "It's tomorrow, you know. Tomorrow is the anniversary..." I swallow and close my eyes, only opening them again as I look back up and meet the gaze of my psychiatrist. I let out a steady breath and finish my sentence, fighting the tears that threatened to fall. "Tomorrow is the anniversary of her death."
Dr. Martin looks at me with sympathy.
"Doc, I've lost too many people; my parents just last year, my wife, as you know, seven years ago, giving birth to the child I lost only three years gone." I stand up and run my fingers through my hair, ruffling it in frustration. "I don't have anything anymore. I don't know what to do. Don't know where to go from here. I thought I could wait it out, handle it, that it'd get better with time but Jesus! She was only five years old!"

ᴥᴥᴥᴥᴥ

I stare into the mirror after the eighth night in a row and let out a sigh. Bags have formed under my eyes, which held a gaze of disinterest and fatigue. I'm not getting much sleep, and when I do, I hear the breaking of bones and see the road stained red as blood flows through and mixes with the rain water, trailing through the cracks and crevices of the tar.
I rub my face in a pitiful attempt to wake myself up; slapping my cheeks once or twice in another failed attempt. Not even splashing my face with the cold tap water did anything to wake my sleeping muscles or shock my brain into functioning right. Another heavy sigh and I reach for my caffeine supplements and take three.
I brush my teeth with haste and rush the shaving of my face.
I reach for the shirt that's draped over the towel rack and slip my arms through, roughly button it up. My shirt wrinkled and smelled of yesterday.
Work. How draining. Although I sat at a desk all day, it still took more energy from me than I had to give. As if I needed any more of my being to be sucked out from within this shell of mine.
Picking up the briefcase that was jam packed with papers from the side of the door, I step outside and the dewy scent of the early morn hits my nose. "Rain. Again."

ᴥᴥᴥᴥᴥ

The kettle squealed like a banshee and I carefully picked it up from the stove to pour the boiling water into my mug where two tea bags lay waiting to be scolded and my two teaspoons of sugar rests until its re-enactment of the wicked witch of the west; melting, dissolving. I lean against the marble counter top and mindlessly stir the teaspoon in my tea. Over and over, thinking of my baby girl.
People shared their condolences but they were all empty, for no amount of ten cent words could ever re-join me with her, ever bring her back or ease the pain I felt whenever that fateful day crossed my mind.
So young, so fair, so pure. Why?
A question I've asked myself that very day and three years since.
Sighing, though not words in particular, has become a large sum of my vocabulary.
But I go suddenly silent, for the sound of giggles rushes passed behind me and my back stiffens.
My imagination, surely, was the cause for this. Hallucinations, I reasoned, from sleep deprivation.
But nothing could convince me from what I had heard. Nor what I still hear.
A distant, faded voice calling "Daddy! Look!"
I closed my eyes and rested both hands to the bench.
"It's raining outside!" I whisper along to the voice. I remembered this so well. A memory burnt so deep into my soul.
"Let's play in it..." I finish off. My eyes water and a stubborn tear carefully made its way down my right cheek, falling to the counter and splashes with a light tap against the marble.
Just then a howl and a whistle reached me from the lounge room as the door swings violently open.
"Rain, rain" echoed a voice through the walls. I run to the front door, wide open and bashing against the wall as rain is blown into the house.
"Go away" the whispers echo around the lounge room as I struggle to close the door against the strong forces of the elements.
"Come again another day" I manage to close it with a slam. And with that slam, sudden silence. I rest my forehead against the door and sob. With a grunt I rub my arm across my nose and wipe down my face. It's not real. It can't be.
"Daddy?" I freeze. I feel my eyes widen and my limbs quiver. No. Oh no no no no no. Good lord, please, stop tormenting me. I turn around slowly, and at the sight I drop to my knees. My darling little girl covered in bruises and blood, with guttered bones and a broken jaw. Eyes glazed and bloodshot with pale iris.
Nightmare, nightmare, nightmare. Be a nightmare. Never have I ever begged for something to be a nightmare so much before the sight of my deceased child. I tremble as the little orange ball she chased onto the road 3 years ago rolls towards me, long lost till now, and bounces off my knee. I stare at it for the longest time.
"Don't you want to play?"
I look up again, at the limp jaw that began to quiver again as she continued to speak.
"I want to play."