spaces | grayson dolan

𝚘𝚗𝚎

Rain is such a funny aspect of life. It comes when you least expect it, washing away the beautiful sunshine on this earth. Sometimes it's a light drizzle, barely having any effect on you. Other times, it's a monsoon of heavy water bulldozing in with dark clouds.

I see rain as a reflection of so many different things. It shows vulnerability to the softness of the world. The streets become a liquid madness, disrupting the hardness of the once-dry concrete.

I also see it as the universe crying. Not every single day is going to be bright and happy, with rainbows and flowers all around. It can be dark, gray, completely and utterly depressing.

Well, everyday is completely and utterly depressing when you live in the gloomy state of Washington. And if you live the same life that I do, then there's really no way around the darkness that is consumed by rain.

It's the same routine every single day. I sit in my bay window, which is the only place I feel safe, and simply watch the rain. My brown orbs focus on the small droplets sliding down the glass, racing to get to the end. I lean my head against the window, keep my grip on my little black diary, and watch the rain for hours.

I normally write things like "today, I'm sad," or "it's never going to get better." Sometimes I even start with, "I miss him so much that nothing matters anymore."

Today, I'm met with a blank page. A black ink pen is twirling around my fingers, but nothing is being written. There's no expression in me, I feel empty inside.

I used to be happy. It's shocking, but it's the truth. I was energetic, bubbly, could spark up a conversation with the wall if I had to.

Now, I'm mute. I've barely spoken two words since the accident that occurred ten months ago. It's almost been a full 365 days.

Nothing physically happened to me, I wasn't the one who suffered from the feeling of water filling up my lungs. But it put an emotional strain on my entire life.

Water is a funny thing. It's so innocent, yet so dangerous. I'm staring at the small droplets that rest on my window. They're barely a speck, something that won't harm you. Yet, you have the ocean. It can swallow you whole and never spit you back out.

I'm so trapped in my sad thoughts that I don't notice my mother enter my small bedroom. She's carrying a laundry basket on her hip, her eyes scanning over my room.

"Need anything washed?" She casually says while looking around.

I shake my head and force my eyes to take notice of the empty page in front of me. I never have writer's block. Not that I'm writing anything spectacular, it's just my inner thoughts.

"Hope?" My mother asks again.

A huff exhales from my lips as I make eye contact with her. I guess she didn't see me shake my head at her question. "No."

"No, what?" She furrows her eyebrows.

"No, I don't need anything washed." I simply state with a low voice.

"There's got to be something." She disagrees and heads over to the hamper in my closet.

I pick up my pen and write down the first words on my fresh sheet of paper.

Dear Diary,

I wish my mother would open her eyes. The act she puts on makes me sick to my stomach. She thinks everything is okay, that last summer didn't happen. My father is even worse, he completely tuned out the situation. They refuse to believe that our perfect little family is tarnished. It was set on fire and burned down to the ground. I don't know how they wake up every morning acting like everything is fine. It's wicked to even think about. Do they not see it? Do they not see what happened to their children? It seems like they completely forgot they had children. They sure don't appreciate them when they're alive and they definitely don't appreciate them when they're dead.