"Midnight"

This is a short story I wrote a little over five years ago. Some of you may have read it before, but in an attempt to jump-start this "writing more often" kick, I'll revisit my past for a little while. 

This story was written in seven parts, so over the next seven weeks, I'll post each subsequent part on Monday. Hopefully, in the midst of all this, I'll get into the habit of writing and posting other things throughout the week as well. 

We'll see. 

But for now,

"Midnight"

I

It's raining.

 

Scattered drops of water entangle the street-lamps with reflections of a heavenly nature, but darkness still remains. I wander alone, doused in a heavy rubber raincoat, faded yellow and torn in two places near the chest---a metaphor, no doubt. I left my rain boots in the apartment, so my feet slosh around inside my worn-out Nike sneakers. I'll get a new pair someday. Perhaps the streams are what carry me as I splash across the street toward an empty colored wall of an old abandoned building. I can never tell anymore. An emptiness, empty as this alleyway I stumble through, envelopes the outer rim of a heart I no longer feel.

Don't ask me that again, I mutter. It’s over now. 

I never did enjoy wandering thoughts---especially at midnight.

But it wasn't midnight. It was briefly after 2 a.m., and I still hadn't found an open convenient store with the chocolate candy I was looking for. I've tried three already.

How inconvenient.

It was on mornings like this that I found myself questioning who I was --- the inner core --- the solid foundation of what I thought was reliable, because I've come to find that it isn't so reliable after all.

A tall man in a dark raincoat topped with a hood has been following me for the past three blocks. Not unusual, especially in the big city, even more-so downtown. A couple of those gruesome detective movies begin to scroll across my imagination as I round a corner. I'm tempted to run and find an empty doorway to cower in, but everyone knows that the people who try to run and hide always end up dead. I figure I'm screwed either way. If this guy is really after me, I don't think my tired legs can carry me far enough fast enough to do me any good. But he isn't out to kill me, yet. I cross 45th street and he turns right onto Jackson Avenue, tripping over the curb and almost splattering himself onto the sidewalk.

I love rain. It carries with it an emotional sense of intelligence. I know cheesy, right? Intelligent rain. But think about it. Every time it rains, people are compelled to do at least one of three things: sleep, read a book, or watch a movie. Alright, I take that back, rain actually makes you lazy. But the person reading the book must feel at least a nudge of intelligence before they fall asleep by the window. As for me, rain brings memories. 

It never fails.

Mostly.

The first memory is usually of a person, or if I'm really awake, of a few people. It's usually their faces followed by a feeling of regret for not keeping in contact, or for letting them go. Depressing, I know. But every once in a while there's a rare face that ignites feelings of joy and sweet nostalgia. Or, if I'm lucky, it’s a face that I hope to see tomorrow. But those are rare these days because I live alone now. I live in a big city far away from the people that remind me of rain --- in a good way, at least.

From now on I'll probably think of Mr. Jackson Avenue who followed me for three blocks and smile. 

We can all use a laugh at someone else's expense every once in a while.