Also short. Again, I'm not sure if these are like my best. Eh. Song's kind of eh too.
Enjoy.
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“Rain” Breaking Benjamin
I walked the streets quietly, watching as everyone ducked into nearby stores and shops, trying to get out of the heavy rain.
I continued walking purposefully- I felt good, better than I ever had.
The lampposts were flickering on; the clouds obscuring the afternoon sun. The sidewalk was wet and slippery. The smell of rain on pavement met my nose and I breathed in happily. I loved the rain.
I smiled in content and resumed my walking; I felt odd as the rain passed through me as if I wasn’t there.
Which I guess, I wasn’t.
The air was blowing harshly, trying to push me back but it wasn’t hard to avoid it and move on. I needed to get home and see mum again. She’d miss me.
I moved on, exiting the town and into country roads. I splashed along the road, stepping in every possible puddle.
I saw the house up ahead; it seemed as if it was huddling against the wind and rain. I started running and then flying towards it. I couldn’t wait to see my mom.
I reached the red door and closed my eyes, passing through it; the feeling always made me feel odd and scared.
I looked around the familiar room. The window was vibrating back and forth from the rain drops and wind. I pulled the curtains closed to one another, hoping to block out the image of outside.
I walked into the kitchen; a pot was sitting on the stove. I walked over to it. It was tea- already cold. Who knew how long it had been there.
I walked into the hall and into my mom’s room. She wasn’t there. Maybe she wasn’t here at all…
I bit my lip nervously; my throat tightened, I felt alone. I was scared. All I wanted was my mom.
I walked out of her room; the walls seemed to be so far yet closing in at a rapid speed. I pushed the bathroom door open, knowing she wasn’t there.
I ran to my room. I would have cried if I could have.
My mom laid on the floor.
Her hair was greasy and stuck together in strands, it fell limply around her. Her hot chocolate-colored eyes were opened and staring at nothing. Her skin was sweaty and looked sticky. It made her look shiny and sick. Her red shirt was soaked and sticking to her body.
Her pale, thin, hands were lying on her sides, the palms up. A shiny object laid on top of one.
I bent over it, studying the object.
It was a kitchen knife.
Don’t grab those Zeke. My mom had always said.
“I thought you said never to grab those!” I shouted, my voice lost between what was real and what was unknown.
