The Weatherman

Part 5

     For weeks, the weather was dull. The air grew flat and heavy. The sky stayed one single shade of ill white. Any rain fell straight down from the clouds, as no wind blew to change its path. Everything seemed sluggish and lazy, almost as if the earth had somehow grown bored.

     This was, of course, the doing of the Weatherman.

     After the encounter with the tall man, there was nothing left to do. The hatred that had festered and stewed in the Weatherman's heart had withered like an Autumn leaf because it had no more purpose, and a great emptiness replaced it. The Weatherman persistently felt as if his heart was falling out of him, as if it was always slightly colder than the rest of him.

     He had returned to the old park bench right after meeting the tall man, and had remained there until, once again, he forgot about everything else. He was slowly grasped by the chilled fingers of his emptiness as they wrapped around his insides and dusted a layer of frost on everything within him.

     More months passed than anyone appeared to notice, and, with time, the Weatherman began to become a part of the grimy old bench that had nurtured him all these years. If ever anyone had seen him, they would have told others that never a more depressèd sight could be seen.

     Years upon years mounted up in front of the Weatherman, and he chose to ignore each one of them. Nothing caught his eye anymore. Nothing made him flinch. No one sat on the bench. No one looked his way. Everything that had once made the poor man smile had been frozen and crippled by the frosty chill of his empty heart, and not one person gave him sympathy.

      At the end of the painful chain of months and years came a day which the Weatherman could never manage to forget, no matter how much he pretended he hated the memory.

      One Winter morning in the park, the Weatherman's bench began to collapse. The years which had passed had proven too much for the iron that composed it, and eventually, the bench had rusted to a point where it could no longer support itself, let alone anyone who sat on it.

     This rust had crawled its way up onto the Weatherman's great overcoat, and had taken root in his hair, which had gradually become more of a small plant upon the Weatherman's head. He was no longer recognisable, but was by no means any less present than he had been in the past, which is why this day in particular managed to jam rather annoyingly in his mind.

     The tree opposite the bench had grown to a great width in its adulthood, its branches reaching out to provide a welcoming shelter to any who might need it. This shelter had extended out over the Weatherman's crooked old bench, and had, like everything else, become irksome to its involuntary permanent occupant.

     Upon this peculiarly memorable day, the Weatherman was contemplating just how much he truly loathed this hateful tree and its horrid branches when something became uncomfortably apparent.

    Despite him choosing to ignore the undeniable change in surroundings, the sudden development stuck fast in the Weatherman's head. What was it? Why couldn't he hate this new thing that should have been just as infuriating as everything else? Why wouldn't it go away?

     The Weatherman repeatedly tried, and even forced himself, to ignore this new change. He didn't want to realise it at all. He wanted to stay stuck in his little bubble, hating everything just like he had done before the change arrived.

     Just as the change began to leave his mind, his focus broke. Memories of what felt like another life exploded in his mind. The young woman kept flashing in front of his mind's crusted eye, and he started to understand what was happening.