Lightning

The lightning flashes.

I curl my toes beneath my feet, focusing on my heartbeat and the striped pattern of my socks.

Inhale. Exhale.

One. Two.

One two.

Onetwothreefourfivesixseveneig—

I refocus on my heartbeat. It's rising again.

In reality, I'm no better than a dog. Thunder terrifies me, which is why I appreciate lightning so much. There's a certain reliancy to lightning, and it marks the arrival of thunder.

I've long learned how to count the miles between me and the lightning. For every five second between the lightning and thunder, the lightning is one mile away. I always count the seconds, if only because it keeps me focused before the thunder hits.

The lightning strikes again.

One mississippi. Two mississippi. Three—

Less than a mile away. I hug my knees to my chest. It's so dark outside, and I'm too scared to leave the safety of my bed to turn on a light.

I don't like this thunderstorm. Well, I don't like any thunderstorm, but this one in particular is excruciating to me. I don't like waiting for thunder. I don't like holding my breath.

The lightning strikes again.

I count the seconds, but my thoughts fade away as no thunder comes. The lightning is hitting right on the edge of where I can hear the thunder, so I don't always hear it. Which means I don't know how far away it is.

I know that lightning always has to hit somewhere, and thunder does nothing. I know this. My logical brain does, anyway. But thunder . . . it isn't just a sound. It's the sound of so much air hitting itself that it can't help but send a booming crash miles away. It's the sound of nature fighting against itself, and humans are powerless against it. It's the sound of anger so pure that even the carefree air partakes in it.

I don't like thunder. I fear it, for what seems like obvious reasons.

At least, it seems obvious as another crash of lightning is sent to warn me.

I hold my breath.

One mississippi. Two mississippi. Three mississippi.

I make it to five this time. It's more than a mile away. I loose a sigh; that means that it can't hurt me. Not that it would be able to hurt me if it was any closer, but my brain doesn't recognize that. At least it recognizes that I need to work on slowing my heart rate.

I calm down for a moment. I close my eyes. I feel . . . okay. I feel decent.

Another crash brings me right where I was before.

I wince and let out a small sound. I feel defeated.

I am defeated.

The lightning doesn't help. Maybe it did at one point, but it can't anymore. I close my eyes, lay my head down, cover myself with my comforter, and let my body relax.

It may tense at every noise—not just the thunder anymore—but at least I have scraps of relaxation.

Against all odds, I fall asleep eventually.

The sun is out when I wake.