Tip. Tip. Tip.
The sound of pattering rain covets me far too often. From the moment my eyes blinked open, I saw rain.
Heavy rain. Steady rain.
Falling from the metal rooftops, down on my trembling frame.
This is my first memory of this world.
Tears that fell from the sky and flooded narrow lanes.
Tears that fell from the sky along with a gush of wind,
They left a starving, scared thing alone in their wake.
It was as if this cursed time wouldn’t pass but when it did my quivering self-did not.
Food.
I needed food.
I began to tread aimlessly but halted dead in my tracks at the sight of a shop.
Through its fogged glass, with streaks of raindrops, a woeful figure stared back at me.
Short legs with small paws, a white coat with round black eyes, a long tail, and a pink nose.
This figure blinked when I did—sneezed when I did. Was that me?
Oh, good god, this was no good.
This tiny creature can’t withstand this world’s heavy pour.
3 months later
=============
The butcher lady is mad at me. She says the moment she finds me; I am dead meat.
Well, she never will. I learned some tricks to survive here.
Never steal from the same place twice in a day. Never sleep where there are people nearby. Never go near grey-haired people. Never forget to snare and growl at people getting close.
And the one that foolishly took me the longest to remember;
Outstretched hands never promise anything but a blow.
These tricks and the scars on my white coat were earned and learned together. My laughable hope of tenderness had vanished from my black eyes and all that was left was a hostile figure of distrust.
6 months later
===============
I am bleeding.
I bark and growl at these sharp barbed wires that obstruct my path back.
I was reckless.
Maddened by starvation and this nagging pain, I was reckless.
A piece of bread on the other side of these doomed barbed wires, a hole I dug to quench my ache; all in all, I am trapped once again.
I am to blame.
My heart had flicked with hope once again. How silly.
Here I thought I had finally learnt how to avoid scars on my muddy white coat.
2 weeks later
================
That boy is pitiable.
He stares from the tiny corner of his window, despite the rain.
In the towering morbid place, he is a small figure near the glass.
I sometimes wonder if he’s watching his reflection. Does he see the hope in his eyes?
Does he see his deep brown eyes?
Does he see his small form?
Isn’t he afraid of it all?
---------------------------------
I remember the day we met.
At night, with heavy gushing wind, I made foiled efforts to find some warmth. But a certain boy did
not. With shudders and heavy breaths, he made himself a scornful sight.
He carried a small loaf of bread in his frost-bitten hands and his eyes carried some strange dreams of a friend.
Someone had to teach him the tricks I learned or there would be more bruises on his legs that were barely covered by the worn-out pants he wore.
I bit the hand he slowly put down.
He whimpered and left.
I stared at the piece of bread near me.
Oh, good god, this was no good.
How shall he walk through this world of heavy breeze?
2 weeks later
============
He and I seem to be two different sounds of one raindrop.
I crash on metal rooftops,
He drifts on leaves,
I snarl and growl,
He brings me treats,
Well, how does it matter, it seems we both are made of water.
Just soft and feeble, no matter the weather. He comes out more often these days.
Walking as fast as his limping legs allow, he droops down in the dirty wet grass. Then he spots me.
I turn away.
His eyes crinkle up yet again.
His calloused hands reach out offering stolen morsels of food.
I never relent; he never minds.
With only glances sweeping in the steady breeze; We sit in oddly peaceful silence.
I touch the withered leaves and raise my head. It’s cold today as well.
As I wait for him to leave, I ponder;
Does he choose to be blind?
To his scars and my bites;
Does he choose to lie?
To himself and I;
In dirt and rain,
That drowns us yet again;
Does he choose to be the fool?
Hoping for a warmer day.
1 week later
===========
I stare at his outstretched hands from the corner of a withered shrub once again.
My weary black eyes meet his trusting ones. “Nothing but a blow” my conscience reminded me.
But…he’s just as I am.
The boy seemed rather persistent today. Sitting down a foot away from me, he placed the bread on his lap.
He should just eat it himself. He’s cold and pathetic. He’s thin and feeble. He is just as I am.
And I;
I am near his lap.
Reckless again.
My paws seem numb yet ablaze as I slowly climb his lap.
Why doesn’t he react?
I look up to see him looking down.
He smiles and rests his head against the wall. How bizarre he is.
How bizarre I am.
I nuzzle my fur against his thin plaid shirt.
Warmth? No, I must be mistaken. How mockable a thought.
I feel a coarse hand stroking my head.
I should flinch yet I do not, for it’s not a blow. It’s the boy from the orphanage who is just like me. Oh, good god, it is no good.
It’s warm,
It’s calm,
It’s like this mere boy in front of me is almost the very spirit of kind.
It’s foolish to hope yet hope I shall that he and I shall find some home in this world of heavy pour.
Aayushi Kumar is a sixteen-year-old girl from Mumbai, India, currently navigating the whirlwind of eleventh-grade tests. In her downtime, she finds her leisure, muse and solace in nature while taking photographs and attempting to bribe cats and dogs alike. Aayushi enjoys playing chess, making candles, dancing, and is a voracious reader known for her penchant for exuberant bad jokes (as her sister would eagerly confirm). She mostly writes poetry and short fiction, and is impulsively inspired by a feeling rather than narratives, striving to evoke a vivid experience. Her passion is writing, which stirs satisfaction, curiosity, and joy: it makes her feel alive. She loves and cherishes every moment spent immersed in the beautiful world mere words weave.
"Rain Study 3" by amandabhslater is licensed under CC BY-SA 2.0.
