Living

She had always known the rain was poison.

Everyone knew it.

They had gotten good at staying indoors, letting the flood subside before stepping out.

They had gotten good at hiding, turning off their lives to let the fear of something stinging skin and eyes hold them grounded in a lockdown.

They told each other horror stories.

They spread their fear as if sharing a feast.

She had always known the rain was poison, but she was beginning to wonder if she believed it.

So as she sat through thunderstorms and felt the call of wind and water pulling at her chest, as she listened to the symphony of life happening outside, without her, she began to slip away.

They were afraid for her.

They wouldn't let her forget it.

It was all they could do not her tie her down when the rain came, they were so worried she would let herself go.

They couldn't seem to understand that she would risk the holding cell of her security cracking under floodwaters that would drown her in a hissing of electrical poison pain, if it meant she could live with something more than the ache in her chest that grew and grew each time it rained.

And the rain came again.

And she opened the door.

They all screamed at her, no!

As if they cared.

But how could they claim to care as they stopped her from doing what she knew was right?

She stepped out.

The rain was cold and clear and lovely on her skin.

And for the first time, she was alive.