Hard Rain

Hard Rain (work in progress):



Chapter 1a



A hard rain had been pounding at the windows all afternoon.  The southeast wind seemed to weave its way into the sound of thunder as it slammed against my apartment windows.  It was the kind of dreary Sunday that keeps you on the couch watching television whether you like it or not, but the sound of chaos outside combined with the calm inside was somewhat comforting.



The repetitive drops of water tapping at the windows woke me from a broken slumber.  Despite my best effort to ignore the din and return to my dreams, my efforts were in vain.  I had hoped to burn off another hour of boredom and return to that dream I was having, but it simply didn't work.  The elevated volume of a commercial forced my attention to the television - someone wanting to sell things, as usual.  I was in the middle of a crappy action-flick marathon on the classic movie channel.  Six hours of bad TV left me desperate for something else to do; anything would be better than this, or so I’d hoped.



The brain-numbing television had become my best friend since the divorce.  As selfish as it sounds, my ex-wife took everything from me - material items, my pride, but above all else my children.



All said and done, I simply felt empty.  I spent my days working and my nights wondering what I did wrong.  Sadly to admit, there are times when I’d contemplated putting a gun to my head.  There was no denying that I was over overwrought with anxiety, topped off with a hint of fear and a plentiful helping of depression.



When you reach a certain point, there are also moments when you sit and stare at inanimate objects hoping they will speak to you and offer some sort of wisdom.  Perhaps that’s the breaking point in a person’s mind when they’re left with nothing.



I’m embarrassed to admit that I had reached that point.  Things meant nothing to me anymore.  The smell of freshly cut grass, the beauty of newly bloomed flowers, or the sound of a giggling child - nothing.





Chapter 1b



It was a Tuesday night, early in the week, and even after an uneventful weekend and an easy start to the week, I was ready to snap.  I found myself staring off in the distance with nothing particularly interesting to occupy my mind besides the slow insanity that crept into it.



The coffee table was ignoring me (she’s such a snob), but the lamp was pretty chatty.  I began to wonder if I could even decipher the difference between my dreams and reality anymore (my only friends were my furniture).  I just wished the lamp would shut up.  (She’s always bitching about how much work she does).  Stupid lamp.



Full disclosure - I was losing my mind.  That or I was depriving myself of the conscious thoughts that crossed my mind.



The snapping of the rain escalated and broke me from my profoundly incoherent thoughts.  You tend to drench yourself in dumb ideas when you spend enough time contemplating the laws of life by yourself.



Since the separation, I’d alienated myself against everyone who could help me.  I fought with my parents, my ex-wife and my therapist.  The latter finally gave up on me, telling me that if I don’t get up off my ass and get over my self-pity, I’d never be at peace.



Her words rolled softly, but held significant weight.



Those very words often coursed through my head, not so much as inspiring thoughts, but more of nagging feelings of guilt.







Chapter 1c



It had been a month since I last met with my therapist, but many nights passed where I couldn’t sleep.  Oddly enough, (and being as lonely as I was), I actually starting having sexual fantasies about my therapist.  I use to masturbate thinking about pushing her from behind while repeatedly asking her what was wrong with my mind.  My “session” usually ended while imagining an explosion across her lower back.  Something about that erotic fantasy made me feel guilty, but always did the trick.  I found myself apologizing to her in my mind, as silly as that sounds, but she always wore tight white pants, and I have a thing for women who wear white.



Anyway, masturbation is a strange thing.  For some reason (and it may just be me), but right when I’m about to orgasm, something random pops into my mind.  The latest episode of something from the Food Network, something that happened at work, etc.  I digress.



I laid there on the couch, arms crossed as I surveyed the room.  Rather than closing my eyes and giving up, however, I decided the safer approach would be to get some air and give that stupid lamp her space.  So I picked myself up, switched off the television, and grabbed my keys.  A few drinks at the local watering hole sounded like an acceptable way to spend the rest of the afternoon, healthy or not.