Home > prose and poetry > running from the rain, the story.

running from the rain, the story.

I’m feeling a bit dissatisfied with my writing at the moment. Something’s bugging me a bit about it. As usual, I don’t exactly know what it is.

Somewhat inspired by the photo in my previous post, I guess.

This might be a metaphor, this might not be. I’m not going to say.

(Because I don’t really know myself)

//

My leg muscles were burning due to the effort required of them. My breaths were short, shallow bursts. My head rattled every time one of my feet hit the bumpy and uneven country road. I was having trouble keeping my pace up, but I kept willing myself on, telling myself again and again, like a mantra, that I was “doing alright.”

I looked to my right and saw that she wasn’t doing too well. I could see by the look on her face that she wasn’t going to last much longer, and, that, somewhere deep down inside, she had already given up and left her body to run on autopilot until it, too, could not go on any longer.

Her eyes were dead, her face, emotionless, stuck in a permanent expression of discomfort.

I opened my mouth, said something to the effect of “come on!” and grabbed her hand. She lifted her face to look at me and I saw her mouth something which looked like “I can’t,” but I wasn’t going to have any of that.

I wanted to say more, to help will her on, to motivate her, but I couldn’t. I was too tired to do so. My mind was a mess, a jumble of thoughts and words and desires. “Maybe we shouldn’tve decided to come out here;” “maybe we should’ve packed an umbrella,” “maybe” this, “maybe” that.

All around us the skies had turned a dark grey as far as the eye could see, the yellowing wheat fields on either side of the road we were on making the clouds seem even darker. We knew that the rain would soon begin falling heavily, and it was a given that neither of us wanted to be out in the open when it happened.

Shifting my gaze back towards the direction we were headed, I saw that the old farm house wasn’t far off, and I pointed to it, waving my left hand hysterically to try and get her attention.

I knew that it was going to be the only shelter we’d find for a long, long way.

I tugged on her hand, and she snapped out of her daze. She understood what I was trying to tell her, and I saw, much to my relief, a spark of life return to her eyes. They began darting left and right, and, when they focused on me, she somehow even managed to cast a faint smile in my direction.

My heart skipped a beat. I tried to smile back at her, but all that I could manage was a half-smile, half-grimace. I was too tired to even control my face muscles.

But that was enough for her, and she turned her gaze towards our destination, the old farm house just up ahead. I saw determination in her eyes, something that I had not seen in a while.

Relieved, I let go of her hand and focused once again on running, safe in the knowledge that, yes, she was still with me, running.

Running from the rain.

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Categories: prose and poetry
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