𝖍𝖊𝖆𝖛𝖊𝖓

I've always thought that the world felt different after a storm.

After the wind rips leaves from trees, scattering them along the ground, and the rain sweeps the debris away, leaving the whole world drowning.

I don't know what it was about it; the smell, the patternless destruction, or maybe even the overwhelming peace when everything's finally standing still. Whatever it was, I just knew that there was something I loved about it.

During those storms that seem like they're shaking the whole Earth, I like to sit outside on my front porch in the old wicker chair, waiting for the pelting rain and the tree-bending wind to slow and eventually leave, leaving only dripping leaves and mud-filled puddles in their wake.

And after the storm's over, and the silence that replaces it takes over, I like to sit there and listen to it; how nature recovers, picking up her broken pieces, and preparing for the next strike.

The beautiful silence is there, like an unspoken language only known to those patient enough to wait to hear it. Those who sit on their porches, waiting for the rain to pass so they can catch a glimpse of the world when everything is still quiet, when nature was still recovering, and the birds had yet to start up their singing again.

Sometimes when I sit there I like to wonder if anyone else is listening to the silence. Perhaps someone else had noticed it, the language of the world as it heals.

✧ ✧ ✧

It was near midnight when the storm had finally passed through. The clouds had just began to clear, revealing the pale light of the crescent moon that was hidden behind them.

I sighed, relaxing back into the woven chair, its wooden legs creaking slightly as I shifted in the stiff seat.

I pulled my old, slightly ragged quilt tighter around my shoulders. The rain had left a slight chill in the summer-night air.

I sat still for a moment, savoring the peace after the storm. The silent humming of the earth made for a great lullaby, lulling me into sleep as I listened to it sing.

But no matter how tired I was, the biting breeze had found it's way beneath my thin blanket, wrapping itself around me in a chilling embrace.

I began to shiver, my teeth chattering as I scampered my way hurriedly inside the house, letting the screen door slam shut behind me.

There was no need to be quiet as I made my way through the hallway. Nobody else was home tonight, so the house was empty.

The house is always empty.

I walked into my small bedroom, sitting myself down on the bed, and listened to it as it groaned under my light amount of weight, threatening to collapse.

I sighed as I shifted my sitting position on the uncomfortably hard mattress, moving to face the chipped mirror hanging on my wall.

I took a moment, staring at the reflection's tired eyes and unkept hair. I looked nothing like the 17 year old girl that I was, instead like a woman aged before her time by horrors and hardships that left her empty and permanently tired.

I had enough of staring at the grey bags that seemed to stick underneath my eyelids constantly, and turned away from myself before I could point out any more of my depressing features.

It wasn't that I thought that my natural features were horrendous. I suppose my ink-black hair must have at some point looked well kept and silky, my deep-blue, midnight eyes once bright. It's just that I don't remember that time, and so I can only assume that I hadn't always look this neglected.

I laid down on the bed, drawing the mismatched quilt tighter around my body, trying to suppress the shivers that racked through me.

It seemed like my mom forgot to pay the heating bill again. It would normally go unnoticed in the summer, but an unsuspected cold front had pushed through, making its presence known as the cold midnight air leaked its way into the house.

I turned my face towards the off-white walls of my excruciatingly boring bedroom. I took in the view, memorizing each scratch, chip and smudge along the poor paint job.

The silence of the house was deafening, reminding me yet again of the hollow chill that wove through the house, depriving it of any warmth and light.

The thought had occurred to me that it may have made me feel better if I were to cry and let out all of my pent up frustration and anger, but in all truth, I don't know if I could anymore.

Crying had become a foreign concept to me, for it had been several years since it's happened. I'm sure that earlier, when my life first began deteriorating, I had likely cried a lot. I would curl up in a ball somewhere in the house where my mother wouldn't hear, because the echo of my sobs would only fall onto deaf, unloving ears.

But I don't have to worry about my mother's anger anymore. It's been nearly a week since I've last heard her voice, or heard the sound of her stumbling footsteps making their ways clumsily up the stairs to her bedroom, an equally drunk man often in tow.

And yet, even without my mother to stop me anymore, I couldn't find the will to cry anymore. Over the years, I had grown used to the neglect and unloving coldness of my mother, and resided that crying wouldn't do any good in helping my situation.

And so, I resided to curl up in the blanket on the unforgiving mattress, doing my best to control my shivering.

In contradiction to the uncomfortable conditions of my bedroom, I found my eyes beginning to grow heavy.

As I drifted into unconsciousness, the last coherent thought I remembered was wondering if I would ever make my way out of this place.