a story: part 8.

two days passed and she wasn't feeling any better. her canvass was still blank and even though she was almost always hungry, she hadn't really been able to eat. she'd gone to bed early the night before feeling like her very soul was being squeezed. she imagined it was sort of like what a heart attack would feel like if it happened deep inside. she picked up her notebook, wrote the words "soul attack" and then put it back on the nightstand.

she propped herself against the headboard and sighed. it was a deep, long sigh that startled even her.

later, she woke up halfway through the darkness surprised that she'd been able to fall asleep at all. she remembered seeing him in her dream, closed her eyes, and went back to him.

when she awoke in the morning, it was raining.

she got out of bed and stood there in her stretchy pants and her faded grey t-shirt and at once knew she needed to feel the rain. so she went to the door and unlocked it. the smell of wet earth enveloped her intention to completely be immersed in something. in the rain. in its temporary permanence. in its cleansing comfort. in the way that it could drench her to the point of soggy skin all because she asked it to.

she took a step toward the torrent. and then, she took another and another until she was standing still in the grey rain. and in her mind, she wrote a poem about how different it felt to hear the rain from inside of it instead of inside of a house. it was something she never wanted to forget.

she went inside, dragging drippy puddles with her down the hall. and with a steady hand, she picked up her notebook and wrote the words, "you can't feel something real unless you feel it completely. hiding in a house or under an umbrella doesn't protect you from the rain. it just makes you scared of it for no reason."

her next painting would be about what the rain taught her. it would not be dark, but light.