City of Warm Rain

by Lydia Rule

This story is dedicated to children across the world who know or have known the torments of an abuser.

The rain is falling, falling from the dark night sky. Each one slaps my face with its frigid presence. Like prisms, the raindrops shatter on the ground beside me.

My skin is a sheath of ice. My blue lips can feel only the pounding of the rain. Perhaps this is not the beginning that you would expect from a story titled “City of Warm Rain”, but it is my story, as short as that may be.

I am lost in this city. I am somewhere alongside an exit ramp to some highway. The cars race by me as I sit alone in a muddy patch of grass. The headlights look bright and warm as they whiz by.

I close my eyes and all I can see is my father’s face. He is yelling at me to leave our small apartment. He is holding another brown bottle in his hands. I do not know why he awoke me in my bed and told me to leave. He yells at me some more and hits me with the back of his hand, leaving a purple bruise across the right side of my face. I did nothing to anger him. But I am not surprised. This is not the first time this sort of thing has happened.

I will wait here by this road. Wait for the rain to stop. Wait for my father’s temper to pass. I cannot walk any farther. All I want to do is sit and sleep. I cannot even feel my legs and tiny bare feet. My faded, white nightdress is plastered against my thin-ribbed body. My two pigtails are drenched and cling to my face. I am ten years old, but I am not really a child. Not in my mind anyways. I have seen too many things to be considered a child. Only my helpless body reminds me that I am little compared to the rest of the world. I long to escape, and wish that a dream would come and make my reality disappear for a little while.

The teeth inside my skull rattle and my inside feels like jelly. I place my hand on my face to keep my jaw from shivering, only to realize that my hand is shaking as well. My skin is wrinkled from the fury of the rain. I do not know how long I have been out here. My vision blurs. The car headlights smear into a giant band of fuzzy light.

What if there was such a place where the rain is always warm? I wonder. A city where God welcomes all the children to be safe. For if there is a God, surely that is the kind of place He would have.

I tried to imagine that the frigid drops of liquid splashing down my face and arms were warm and steamy. Like a hot shower or a steamy mist. This imaginary place would be a golden city. No dirty apartments or smog-filled air. And when it rains in this city, the rain is not harsh and cold, but soft, warm, and gentle.

A car rushes by, its wheels hitting a pool of oily rainwater. The pool splashes into a wave, spraying me. I don’t even flinch. The cold has seeped into my soul. Every part of me is too numb to care. My reddened eyelids shut out the busy world. Thoughts…. images… feelings… they are fading… slowly fading…

The only thing I can hear is a soft patter of the rain. I re-open my eyes. A bright light surrounds me. I put out my hand to catch the falling rain. The drops hit my hand. I smile, because here in this place, the rain is warm.

Bio: Lydia Rule has been published in several international magazines. She is currently working on her fifth novel.