All because of the Rain
Pitter-patter raindrops scatter, cool air lingers around the space. She loved the sound of rain on the roof but he did not. In fact, he loathed it. When the rain touched upon the steel roof and rattled, she would smile and sigh.
“Rattling roofs are a part of life,” she would tell him. She had long accepted that fact, and found it to be a good fact. For she loved the rain and everything about it. How it would cast a cool damp darkness around her and draw her into a different world. So rattling roofs were a happy part of life for her.
The sound of rain does something to her little brain. The minute the smell of rain creeps up to her nose and she hears the pitter patter scatter of the sweet rain her body would relax and she would snuggle deeper into her beanbag. The old cotton one made by grandma Jo, the one that hugs her body just perfectly. From that beanbag her mind would wander to places far and wide and before long she would be skipping upstairs and begin filling up white canvases with colours and fantastical images from those places.
The rain inspired her.
The sound of the rain triggered a different sort of physiological experience for him. The first sounds of the rain, as it touches the ground were alright, bearable. After all it meant the plants were watered. Before long, the pitter patter tapping on the roof in a monotonous never ending tap would cause the muscles in his legs to tense up in annoyance and he would sit in his leather armchair, still, intently concentrating on the television. He turns up the volume to drown out the sound, but as the rain gets louder it would turn into a war, between him and the rain- the louder one wins. And soon the volume of the television would be at its maximum, and he would have no choice but to resort to listening to the sound of the television with the “tap tap tap” of the rain on the roof in the background.
The funny thing was, she never knew of this loathing, if she did she would have never let him into her house.
But it was not as if he loved the rain back then, it was that he was deaf to the rain, too enchanted by her beauty. Or maybe he was distracted by the effect of her beauty, by what it made him want to do. He was captivated at first by her golden brown skin, and her sleek silhouette under the long flowing dresses. Her daintiness and how she skips instead of walk, or springs instead of run. And then he was drawn to her curly dark hair, that like her, had such character, and a sort of craziness. And when she smiled, her eyes would look happy, and sad all at the same time, speaking more languages than one, to the soul. She had a sort of fluidity about her, flowing through the world, rather than just floating on it.
Yes, she had a sort of beauty that seemed to be bottomless. The sort with a fat middle, and no end.
He would watch her paint, especially in the rain, as she dances to the sound of pitter patter tap tapping and dives deep into this other world. He would watch her hand, which like a bridge between her mind and the canvas, holding onto the brush, directing it to paint what she sees in her mind. And when she was done they would go for a walk around the gardens and they would talk and laugh out loud.
And then the months went by, and familiarity snuck in between them both. He knew her every move, every curve, and it captivated him no more. Her beauty became old and so he bought a television set to watch instead. He then bought a leather armchair, which looked so out of place in her rustic earthy home, and she loathed it. That and the television set both. For he, in time, began spending most nights seated on the leather seat in front of the electric box. And he would begin to miss his city.
Soon he began to hear the rain. And the tug-of-war between him and the rain began. And of course, what the sound of rain did to him, the sound of the television did to her. And the glass bubble that carried them shattered. Then came the monsoon season.
The “tip tap tip tap” got loud, and unceasing and it would begin to reverberate in the space between his ears, numbing his brain to anything else but its monotonous tapping sound. How he hated the rain. His body would begin to twitch and his head would throb as the friction between his tense muscles and the rain spark up a heat that sent his blood boiling. And as hot blood flowed through the tense body he heard her scream.
“Turn off the television, turn it off, turn the television off!”
Now everytime it rains, he found a new flaw within her, and before long his loathing grew to encompass her, and the rain. Oh how he hated her.
So he would scream back, “turn the fucking rain off!”
She turned to look him in the eye. The war between him and the rain, had become a war between him and her.
And after the rain it grew silent, very silent. And soon after it grew silent, the television left, and together with it the armchair and the man upon it.
But the cold air would linger, the sort that was filled with an emptiness. And it would wrap itself around them, the both of them, never leaving, not for a long long time.
And this, was all because of the rain.
(For BeKindRewrite’s Inspiration Mondays – Prompt of the week: Soundproof, We will never be rid of him…)