I Used To Love The Rain

I’ve never liked thunder. The loud claps and rumblings have always made me feel uncomfortable (maybe scared), but I learnt to be cool with it. I was cool with thunder because when it thundered, it rained. And I loved the rain.

When it rains, I can smell the earth and I just adore it. I love the sound of the drops hitting the ground and the lightning cracks across the sky. I loved to watch the tiny droplets race down a window. Most of all, I loved the rain because it was like magic to me.

I convinced myself the rain had special mystic powers. Good ones. Cleansing ones. I believed it washed everything bad away. Kinda like a bath, but not just for my outside. It’d wash my insides too. It didn’t matter what I was going through, or how miserable and lonely I felt, because I knew it’d rain and everything would be okay again. Yeah, I loved the rain.

You’re supposed to feel safe in your own home. Among your family. They’re supposed to be the ones who love and protect you. But this isn’t usually the case. Turns out your family are the ones who hurt you the most.

When you’re younger, they make you do it by tricking you, or threatening you. Making you feel like it’s your fault you’re doing such dirty things. Those are the mean ones. The nice ones make you think you’re playing a game. Afterall, there’s nothing wrong with games. And then you get caught, and you’re forced to tell. So you tell on the ones that were mean, and you get punished for being filthy. Punished double, because it only stops for a while.

And then, you’re a bit older. It’s been a while, and you’ve pushed the memories into a secluded corner of your mind and forced them to stay there. It’s your family. You tell yourself you were young and you love them. But you’re smart enough now to not let them do it again. You’ve grown out of those games, and the same tricks don’t apply anymore. So, he tries new tricks. He tells you it’s natural, and he wants to help you learn. It’s perfectly okay since you’re so close. He tries to make you feel bad for not trusting him, your own family. When you don’t budge, he tries something else. He decides if you wouldn’t give it, he’d take it. And when he’s done, he just looks at your quivering body and tells you to go clean up. His voice cold as ice.

You can’t tell anyone. Because it’s your fault. You gave him the opportunity. But someone finds out and promises she’ll take care of it. She doesn’t. You push past it and move on. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. You know it’ll never happen again. You’d die first.

So many years later. You’re much more grown up now (at least in some ways). And like you promised, you’ve managed to protect yourself. But then he comes to visit, because he knows you’re home alone. You let him in simply because it’s him. He pretends to be concerned about your welfare, offering to take you to eat something, or leave you some money since you’ve exhausted the one mummy gave you. And then he touches you. It’s just a light brush on your exposed legs, but it’s still very inappropriate, so you move. And then he laughs and tells you not to be shy, he wants you to be comfortable with him. Why don’t you come sit on next to him and tell him what you want him to get you? You refuse. You tell him you think he should leave. And then he gets upset. He pins you unto the floor and starts to touch you. All the locked-away memories burst free and engulf your mind. You can’t scream because no one will hear you. You’re mad at yourself because you’re weak against this person. And then his lips touch your cheeks and you remember. You’re much stronger now, and he shouldn’t be doing this. You struggle and manage to push him off you. And he has the audacity to ask why you’re doing this to him. You open the door and tell him to leave.

But now, you remember again. Because you still can’t tell anyone. Especially not her. She wouldn’t believe you, or she’d blame you. So, you learn to deal with it again. And you take all the escaped memories and start to shove them back in. You’ll move on. You’ll survive.

So now I lay here in the dark, unable to sleep. It’s raining and I don’t feel better. I’m unhappy. I can’t smell the earth like before, and there are no droplets on my window. I most definitely don’t feel clean. I just want it to stop. The magic is gone. I don’t like the rain anymore.


3 thoughts on “I Used To Love The Rain

  1. so haunting, and so true. It’s funny how we just push back such memories and try to act like they’ve never happened. But somehow we internalize all of it and it affects our decisions. I kind of like the rain but it like the weather mot when it’s just about to rain and I can smell the rain in the air. But no amount of water wash those memories away. *sigh* I hate that this stuff happens

  2. I love this story babe. Where have you been? even your bbm isn’t going through. Hope you are okay?

    I left you an award on my blog, do check it out. :*

  3. Well written Sad story.
    If only the rain could wash of the dirtiness, all of it. Alas, no amount of raindrops can. We have to get stronger, learn and move on. Easier said than done.


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