Beatrice lay on the rumpled sheets, her eyes cast on the ceiling, focused on empty space. Rain poured heavily outside her bedroom window, leaving blotches of perspiration on its glass partition. It had been raining for about half a week. She hated the rain. She hated the sound of its angry downpour resonating through the walls of her room and the way it dominated the atmosphere, begging to be heard.
Nothing seemed to overpower the blatant noise of the furious rain; not even the music from her speakers on max volume—blaring, ironically, Rhythm of the Rain by The Cascades.
Chill managed to penetrate the marginal spaces of the window jamb and brushed against her exposed skin, causing goose flesh to rise. She shifted to her side, reached for a blanket on the pile of laundry by the bedside table, and wrapped herself in it. She basked in its warmth and thought of slumber. Her eyes were slowly drooping.
Upon the boundary between sleep and consciousness, her thoughts wandered.
There had been times where she’d enjoyed the rain. Especially when she was little, when rainwater was safe enough to bathe in—like a cool, comforting shower shared with close friends, although completely clothed. How long had it been?
Before she could even recall some past memories to answer the question, she dozed off.
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I stole the photo above off of Google images.
Fluorescent Adolescent 