The rain was relentless as you listened to it pour down upon the dark shingles of the sturdy roof above you, trailing down the pale white siding of the small house like you had left a faucet running. Branches of the large oak tree that shadowed over the front lawn, tapped against your bedroom window. Waving back and forth as the strengthening wind in the depth of the night grew, watching the shadows of the leaves trembling as they did all they could to cling to their rightful branch. There was yet to be any sign of lightening to shock your dark bedroom to life, or thunder to break through the almost melodic sound of the constant and calm rainfall. But there was something in the darkness outside your window, that told you something was lingering in the air. That something, despite the clock ticking past midnight, was on its way. The sky was pitch black, as the night had forgotten to sprinkle in the stars or leave the moon out for a sliver of light. And although the rain fell with an intensity against the house, there was something eerily silent about the night. For the world felt still, as though the calm before the storm.
But a soft knocking coming from the first floor drew you from your wandering thoughts, as you blinked your eyes that had been staring lost at the shadowed ceiling, you sat up slowly. It was a different tapping than that of the tree branches at your bedroom window. This knocking almost sounded stressed, an urgency as it rapped against your front door. The sensation loud enough to float up the set of stairs and find you wrapped yet unsettled in a set of pale blue sheets. Pulling the soft cotton fabric off of you, your legs slide over the edge until the pads of your bare feet touch the cool surface of the light wood flooring. And although darkness engulfed the bedroom as if you were standing out in the midst of the night outside, you reached for the sweatshirt that laid on the edge of the chair in the corner, without any doubt of where to find it. As though you had put the article of clothing there yourself, when in reality, you hadn't touched it since it's rightful owner had left it there.
The soft cotton sweatshirt slid over your head, and glided down the silk material of your thin pajamas with ease. And instantly, you were overwhelmed with not only the warmth the inside lining provided, but the scent that clung to every stitch of thread. As though the rich and spicy aroma of faint cologne and aftershave, was somehow woven within the makings of the navy blue fabric. It swallowed you up in size, nearly falling past the bottom of your pajama shorts, leaving you swimming in warmth and comfort as it instantly felt like being wrapped in the arms of the one it belonged to. And there was something about adorning the sweatshirt, as you made your way down the stairs, that eased the anxiousness that the night had brought up to the surface inside of you.
When your bare feet finally met the fuzzy front door mat, as the knocking continued the closer you ventured towards the door, you had to pull the sleeves up just to allow for your fingers to find the brass doorknob. Twisting it, after flicking on the single lightbulb that glowed over the front porch, you opened the door. And the only light seen for miles on the dark street in the middle of the night, shone down upon a sight that made your heart nearly beat right out of your chest.
His arms were crossed over his chest, as his left shoulder leaned with ease against the side of the house. And although it was something you had seen many times before from his always easy and relaxed nature, there was something about his stance tonight that told you he was exhausted. It was etched across his face in the lines that creased in the furrow of his brow and began to sag in the deep bags below his brown eyes. It was evident in the way his body rested against the siding. And although his muscles were on clear display, nearly splitting the tight sleeves of his grey t-shirt down the seams, and his strength and natural self confidence radiated off of him as it always would, it wasn't enough to hide the exhaustion his body was feeling from your watchful eyes.
His pants were caked in mud at the ankles, before they disappeared into the equally as dirty boots that his loosely crossed feet wore. His shirt showed signs of sweat, faint almost imperceptible lines around the collar as though it had just finished drying. And although the roof extended over the porch that he waited on, the rain had poured mercilessly down upon him on his way up to the door, and the dark splotches still covered the light grey fabric. But it was the bruises that were in the beginning stages of forming on his forearms, and on the edges of his knuckles that caught your worrisome gaze. They were light, but you could see the deep purple shade beginning to bleed through, as though a drop of water landing on a spot of ink. Spreading the blackish-blue shade out against his flesh like a watercolor.
