The Weatherman

Part 3

     More months than the Weatherman wanted to count passed torturously by. Each day was new salt in the Weatherman's already raw wounds. Each day was another searing twist of the blade so harshly driven into him by the tall man.

     The Weatherman was no longer able to sit on the park bench, because the tall man had taken up residence there when he came to sit with the young woman every afternoon. Their being together meant that the young woman no longer made sketches, and the beautiful sketchbook made its way eventually to a cupboard full of old things in the young woman's appartment.

     Once again, the Weatherman forgot how to pay attention to his work. Rain fell carelessly on anyone in its way, the sun was strangled by black clouds that so angrily wanted to punish the people they watched over, the flowers wilted in the summer heat and the animals shivered in the harsh and frosty winters. He began to grow old again as he hated everything around him. Everything that was once beautiful was now stained in deep black in the Weatherman's red old eyes.

     The couple continued coming to the bench every afternoon, but as the Weatherman stood and watched them from across the path, a place from which he no longer moved, he noticed that the two remained there a little less each time, and the merriment in which they shared became less and less frequent. The time finally came when the couple where nowhere to be seen, and the Weatherman almost felt glad at first. He was happy not to see the young woman. He was happy not to have to look upon the two people who so cruelly broke his heart. He was happy not to have to stare bleakly at them anymore through the straggly grey hair that now hung like a curtain around his head. For days he remained standing still, allowing his spite and his hatred to eat away at him. One thing that would have been obvious to anyone who knew him was this:

   The Weatherman was still in love, but not with the young woman. The Weatherman had fallen in love with hate.

       Several more weeks crawled by before the Weatherman became aware of this. Hatred had become all that he cared for. It was good to him. It loved him back. It nurtured him and gave him a purpose. Without it he would have been lonely, but with it he was happy. Not happy like he was when he loved, but happy in the twisted, evil sense that comes to us when we witness cruelties fall upon our enemies.

     Noticing this, the Weatherman decided to move.

     He knew what he was doing, and he knew just how he'd do it.