Trapped. Short Story.

Hope everyone’s week is going well! I haven’t been up to much. I have a feeling that I have, but I really haven’t.

I really have the feeling that something happened, or that there was something I wanted to talk about, but I haven’t the faintest idea what it was. Oh well. Apparently it wasn’t all that interesting.

So…..

 

On with the show!

_______________________________________________

She sighed. Days like this were the worst, hands down. She stared at the window as rain pummelled into it. It did sound pretty, she could admit that, it even looked kinda nice but that was all rain had going for it. She couldn’t leave the house, not at all, not even a short walk down to the end of the driveway. Nope. She was stuck inside until it stopped. Large puddles were beginning to form and, if the weatherman was correct, the rain was down for the next three days. At least she was safe from flooding. She stepped away from the window and went towards the kitchen, intent on cleaning up her lunch things. She had a sandwich, she was  hungry and in a rush. She wanted to get outside before the rain started, but had failed miserably. She opened the windows in the kitchen to allow some air in, she did like the damp smell of rain occasionally, and how everything felt afterwards, fresh and new and living. This waiting though, it almost wasn’t worth it. She put away everything then wiped down the counters. When the kitchen was clean, she went into the sitting room. It wasn’t that messy, but she still cleaned, it gave her something to do.

She lit the fire, hoping the room would heat up. It was something her mother always did when it rained, said lighting the fire would make the rain know it was unwelcome. It always amused her as a child, it was rain, water. It didn’t have any motives, though secretly she sometimes suspected it might. It was hard not to take it personally when it was going to rain for days and days and days.

She tried to fight off the urge. She got it occasionally, once every few years. It had been almost six years since the last time. Though if she was honest that was more of a punishment, a way for the physical pain to override her emotions. She went to the backdoor and opened it slightly, then, taking a deep breath, she removed her glove and moved her hand out slowly. A rain drop fell on her hand, it was so cold, it wobbled for a moment, then began to slide. She watched, fascinated. It hadn’t happened yet, maybe it wouldn’t. She felt hope bubbling up and tried to suppress it. Another drop landed on her, then another. She watched carefully. Thin tendrils of steam began to rise from her skin, she waited another second, then pulled back her hand. Quickly she used a towel to dry it, hissing in pain. When she stopped, she looked at her hand, now red and splotchy, the red spots and streaks were throbbing slightly. It would be days before they faded. She went to the cupboard and got some painkillers, then she dry swallowed them. She wondered what colour they would fade to. That was always interesting. Sometimes bright blue, sometimes green. There had been yellows and purples and any and every variation of colour. It would last another three days before fading into silvery scars which would last about a year. She went to the sink and turned on the tap after letting it get cold, she held her hand under the water, sighing in relief as it began to numb the pain. After a few minutes she took her hand from beneath the spray and dried it. She didn’t understand why that was fine. Why she could drink water and bathe, but the moment it was rain it would burn her skin. Her mother had all sorts of stories to explain it, but nothing ever felt right.  She had thought about going to the doctor, but there was always the fear that they’d imprison her or something. Logically she knew that was unlikely, if not outright impossible, but that fear remained. She had her mother to thank for that. All those tales of ancestors burned at the stake, or worse, tied up outside and left in the rain. She shuddered. No, it was a secret and one she was perfectly happy to keep. She had seen the Wizard  of Oz when she was younger and thought she might be a witch for a week or so, until she realised she had no magical powers and no matter what she tried her “potions” never worked.

She worked from home, which enabled her to stay indoors during the rain and, if it lasted more than a few days she could always get her food delivered to the house. Socialisation was easy too, people came over or she could say she was too busy to go out. She accepted it, but she didn’t like it. She went back to the window and peered up at the clouds, hoping that soon they’d begin to break up and allow rays of sun through. Of course there were always ways around things, her mother for example, had always carried an extremely large umbrella with her where ever she went, she sometimes got strange looks, but it had saved her more than once. She however, didn’t like umbrellas, they were so unwieldy and the wind always seemed to tug at hers, even when everyone else was walking along just fine. It was safer to stay indoors.

Relationships could be a little odd, she hadn’t told anyone of her strange little allergy, so they just thought she was a smidge eccentric. She allowed them to think that. It was better than being thought of as a freak. The teasing she used to get at school was at the back of her mind, always that weird little girl who would scream and cry if you tried to get her to go out in the rain. Her father had known about it, though he had died when she was little. Her memories of him were few, but she knew him to be a good man.

She turned from the window and went into her office. There were no windows here, it was best for when it was raining. It always seemed to put her into an introspective mood, one that she didn’t like. It was easier to block it out than to deal with it. She sat down and logged onto her computer, she had work to do and she’d get it done, rain or no rain.

 

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About Alan James Keogh

I am a 24 year old writer who somehow tricked U.C.D. into giving me not only a degree in English and Classical studies, but an Hons Masters in Creative Writing too. Visit my blog where I post short stories twice a week (Monday and Wednesday) and an installment of a serialised novel on Fridays. I did consider writing this in the third person, as though it was written by someone else, but Alan is not comfortable writing in the third person as it seems kinda creepy and unbalanced so Alan decided it was probably best to write in the first person. He hopes it went well for him.
This entry was posted in Fantasy, Short Stories and tagged , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

One Response to Trapped. Short Story.

  1. Greetings from the professor! Good post thanks for sharing enjoyed!

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