I never understood what the big deal about rain was. I mean, what was it? Wet stuff that fell from the sky. I never understood why it had such a huge significance to some people. It never did to me.
Or maybe that's a lie.
In fact, it is. Rain did mean something to me, just not all that happy crap it did for some people.
You know what it makes me think of? A night way back when I was eight. A night full of dripping, pouring rain that soaked through the sweatshirt I had worn, that soaked through my battered sneakers. A night of standing outside the place we were leaving my sister.
(Sometimes, when I don't sleep I still wake to hearing what I think are her screams, her pleas for help, her pleas for us not to abandon her)
We stood there in the rain for ages, it felt like. We stood there watching them drag Wanda away, listening to her screams and remaining deaf to them. I still have that image of her locked in my head. Her hair reduced to a flat and dripping tangle, her