Downpour

Not for the first time that day, he let the anger bubble up inside him. It bobbed against his ribs, tightened stomach muscles, and warmed him in a way that felt seductive, intoxicating... but also wrong. He couldn’t let the anger grow irrational. It wouldn’t do to let it out of its cage, although with the rain starting to tap down around him (and he in completely the wrong coat for this sort of thing) the anger seemed friendly. It might even help him focus as he fumbled through the key ring for the correct piece of metal to unlock the door in front of him.

His fingers were shaking too much to make sense out of the jangling forms in front of him. The anger had helped push some of the fear aside, true; yet the raindrops were visible now, punching into the greyness of the path to his front door, causing imperfect little circles that stained the stone black, sending shock waves powerful enough to force themselves into his knees and start them shaking.

This won’t do, he heard himself say, it just won’t do.

He sighed and put the keys back in his pocket, some of them trailing over the lip of the fabric. He scooped those dangling stragglers back in with a flailing hand. He could feel the anger now on the edge of a rising panic. Why have I put the keys away? He looked around frantically. He was alone. Nobody was coming to help. He looked to the sky. It was darker now. It was teasing him. Playing with him. Light drizzle now, oh yes. Later? He felt a raindrop bounce off his forehead and for a moment, it was cool and refreshing and then the rain did what it always did when it made contact with his skin: it fizzed and seared and burned, formed a tiny crater in his flesh with cauterised edges and the dark haematite centre. He felt his shoulders rise up to his ears and a shudder ran through him, pausing only to recalibrate its frequency when it met the ever-present shake of terror in his knees.

I will be brave. Mother would want me to be brave.

He rolled the collar of his coat up and shrunk his neck a little to cover up as much of his face as was possible between the rough ramparts formed from the material. His hands now free from this emergency, he could turn them to the chief matter at hand; getting into his bloody house. He could see in through the glass to the left of the door, the view within taunting him. Everything was so inviting. Everything was dry. The rain was starting to pick up now. Spatters hit his hands intermittently, one with such intensity that he cried out. But he did not drop his keys.

Why are there so many keys for this stupid house?

He sifted through a few more. It was a Yale key, not one of the longer ones that opened the mortice locks inside the house. He remembered thinking about buying some of those coloured covers you could get, the last time he had nearly got caught outside. That time, however, he had been wearing his long, waxed raincoat with the hood. He’d been wearing a hat. And gloves. He’d still had his umbrella.

If he hadn’t left that blasted umbrella on the bus, this would never have happened. The anger rose once more. Perhaps it was the fury at himself that allowed him to tamp down the fear and the shaking just long enough to slip the right key into the lock and swivel it all the way to the left, the door lightly scraping its draft excluder along the carpet on the other side with the right amount of resistance to slow everything down just long enough for the rain to begin in earnest and to start slamming projectiles at his back, onto his bowed head, around his feet; a full-on assault of explosives bounding up from the stone of the path, running off his coat and onto exposed patches of skin everywhere and he could swear he heard sizzling, although this time he was surprised to find he made no sound as he leaned forward and just allowed his momentum to take him over the threshold and to crash in a heap on the soft, welcoming, and most importantly, dry carpet of his beloved home.

He lay there for a moment listening to the barrage outside. Good for the plants, his mother had said. He shook his head and pulled his knees up to his chest. Bad for me, mother. He had tried to tell her throughout his childhood and beyond, but she had never believed him. All in your head, son, she would say. An affectation, she would tell her friends. It was none of those things. It was a horrible affliction that he carried and he alone knew what it was to live like this. He felt the bubble begin in his stomach. It was enough to power him to a standing position, to remove his coat - carefully, he did not want any stray rivulets to melt into him - and to close the front door. He hung the coat on the hook on the back of the door, once more lamenting the fact that his favourite, safest, raincoat was being professionally cleaned. Bloody seagulls, he muttered as he stamped up the stairs in search of a towel.

He patted himself dry with delicate care. There was a routine to this, a ritualistic pattern that he had developed through long years of trial and error. He would use a corner, clasped in his right hand. Dab dab dab. Take off any moisture. Then he would fold the corner over, switch hands. Check the right hand. No traces? Good. Continue. Dab dab dab. He would keep going over any skin that had been exposed to the horror until he was certain he was free from danger. This time he had been lucky, he knew that. His hair was wetter than he would have liked but it wasn’t dripping nor were there any streams running off his head. He would make sure his hair was dry first, yes, that was -

The doorbell rang.

He froze in place, startled by the intrusion. He folded the towel carefully over so no wet patches were exposed and set it gently on the bed. He listened carefully. No sound came from below as a realisation sank into him.

Oh. My delivery.

He made his way back downstairs, giving a wide berth to any patches of the carpet that seemed as though they could be wet. He told himself he was being overcautious, that he had followed the protocols correctly. The house itself was still his sanctuary. He felt calm washing through him and relief chased after it, his nervous system relishing the rare sensation speeding through its master. He smiled, a faint expression that passed over his face then faded once he neared the door and saw the spattering flecks leaping off the path. And his parcel, sat square in the middle of it all, several feet from the door. His heart rose in his chest and an icy feeling spread outwards from it to chill every part of him.

No, I can do this. Mother was right. It is just a bit of rain.

He opened the door. He hadn’t fully convinced himself. Hesitation gave pause to motion. His hand lingered on the door handle. He bit his lower lip. The rain eased somewhat. He thought of how his mother would encourage him to be brave, even as his skin puckered and burned in spring showers. He let go of the handle and rushed down the pathway to his parcel. It was damp and he recoiled as he touched the moisture though it wasn’t as wet as he had first thought. Then he heard a faint sizzling noise and a whining sound escaped his lips. Quickly, quickly. He picked up the parcel and turned back to the house. The rain was gathering strength. Well, no matter, he thought, it’s only a few steps.

He raised his eyes to the door which was now very much closed, having swung shut under its own weight. Time came to a complete stop while his stomach churned over, not with anger this time, but with a sad and terrifying understanding that he had left his keys in his coat pocket. There was an appropriately dramatic clap of thunder to drown out his scream as the sky split apart, detonating into a bewildering onslaught of tiny watery shards plummeting to earth, utterly enveloping him in the all-consuming fire of a full-bore downpour.