Writing
Rain
Date Posted: March 22, 2024
As I’m waiting to get my picture taken in line at the DMV, I remember standing with my classmates, all of us arranged in a line that lead into the doorway of the gym, hearing and seeing the flash of the photographer’s camera, and I remember thinking about my hair, how my mother had spent that morning curling it, only for the rain to ruin it within the seconds it took for me to get from bus to school, and I remember how sad I was that rain could ruin such hard work, that this endeavor my mother took on, despite already being late for work, could be erased with such ease, and I remember thinking – what else could the rain make disappear, could it erase me from existence, and if it did, would it take the memories of me with it, would my mother remember where the burn on her forefinger had come from, that I had been the one to bump the curling iron into her hand that morning, that she used to have a daughter, with beautifully curled hair, before the rain washed her away.
“Next!”
I approach the desk and the attendant instructs me to stand on a red-duct tape X that had been stuck to the floor. I feel a strange, intense sympathy for this X – being stepped on each day, repeatedly, only to be ripped up and replaced once your edges start to lift and you can no longer stick like they want you to – what a miserable existence.
She tells me that I can smile if I wish – I don’t. I rarely wish to smile, to feel my face move against my will, an involuntary action that so many people seem to find enjoyable. Why, I’ve always wondered, do people enjoy something so out of their control?
I’m flashed with a blinding light, and I try to keep my eyes open – I fail. My eyes squeeze shut, trying to shield themselves from the painful assault. And I hate it – this lack of control I have over my own body – that my eyes can close against my will, even though keeping them open should be such a simple task. I try to coax my eyes to open, telling them the offending light is gone, that it’s safe now – they listen, but I can feel their hesitance. The lady, filling out papers, doesn’t even look up as she speaks.
“Your new license will arrive in the mail within three to five business days. Have a great day.”
Her bored tone irritates me. I know she’s just doing her job, going through the motions. To her, someone losing control of their eyes is an everyday occurrence. But doesn’t she know that the eyes are just the first step? Can she not see my control being pulled further and further from my body with every second?
My body turns and walks towards the door, its ears picking up the muffled Next! that comes from the lady’s mouth. Another person steps forward to lose control of their eyes – the first step. As my body passes through the doorway, I feel the rain hit its skin and I think – This is it. The rain is here to wash me away.
I see my mother at her weekly nail appointment, the woman next to her asking about the scar on her forefinger. I see her stare at her finger, at that small, insignificant patch of scar tissue. I see her shrug and tell the woman she has no clue where it came from. I see her walking through the front door of my childhood home. I see her pass by walls covered in pictures – pictures absent of me. I see her pass by my bedroom door, the plaque with my name on it no longer hanging from a bent nail I had poorly hammered into the wood – an act that got me grounded for a week. I see her walk into her bathroom and open the drawer under the sink. I see her reach for her hairbrush, passing over the same curling iron that gave her that scar.
But the rain doesn’t wash me away – instead, it performs a miracle.
I feel the force that has been steadily pulling on my control lose its grip, slickened by the rain. I feel my control slip back into its rightful place. I close my eyes. I tilt my head back. I savor the feeling of the rain on my skin – each drop leaving a cool, damp line behind until my entire body is covered in cool, damp lines. And for once the rain doesn’t seem so bad. Sure, it washes things away, and sometimes those things are things you want to keep, but sometimes the rain does you a favor, and the things it washes away are the things you so desperately want to be rid of.
The Void
Date Posted: March 22, 2024
I don’t know what triggered it. One minute I’m sitting in my favorite café, people-watching through the storefront window – and the next, I’m here. Here being The Void, as I’ve taken to calling it. I’ve been sent to The Void since childhood, each visit caused by some sort of trigger I have yet to put my finger on.
Despite my regular visits, I always struggle to find my way around. This place is so devoid of light you would think you were floating in an abyss of nothingness if you could not feel the floor beneath your feet. But it’s not a place of nothingness, in fact it’s filled with never-ending clutter. At least, I assume it’s never-ending – I’ve never reached the end. Each time I’m thrown into The Void, the layout changes, no matter if the visits are weeks apart or merely hours. It’s almost as though The Void is a living entity, always changing.
I try to ground myself by taking off my shoes and socks, pushing my feet into the floor, the familiar cold seeping from the tiles and into my feet. I slide across the floor and extend my arms out in front of me, moving slowly. I’ve injured myself too many times trying to rush. I leave my shoes and socks behind.
I come into contact with what feels like fabric, and I run my hands over the surface, trying to figure out what this object is. It seems to be a couch, with lumpy cushions and wooden accents… I think. Within The Void, you can never be sure if what you’re feeling is actually what you’re feeling.
I find the edge of the “couch” and move past it, arms reaching out to feel the next object. I continue this maneuver over and over again – it’s the only thing I can do.
Then the pressure starts to build – that unbearable pressure that always starts as soon as the maneuver becomes easy. While The Void always begins as some impossible task, after a time it almost becomes enjoyable.
This pressure is the signal that I’m about to be ejected back into the “real world” – and, at this point, I don’t know if I want to go back. But I’m never given a choice. The pressure continues to build until I’m no longer able to stand, pinned to the tile floor. The Void starts to shake from the pressure, all its contents shaking with it – me included. I close my eyes and try to outlast the shaking.
***
“Excuse me,” the voice makes me open my eyes. The barista is now the one shaking me, her hand on my shoulder. She’s looking at me, concerned. “Are you alright?”
“I’m fine. Thank you, though.”
“Okay. Well, we’re closing so…” She looks as though she’s waiting for me to scream at her – the dangers of customer service.
I look outside only to find my reflection staring back at me, the window having gone black with the night. It had been bright outside when I was sent into The Void – a whole day stolen by The Void. I nod, attempt to give her a smile, and leave.