He said he loved the smell of rain. I said rain didn’t smell like anything. It must’ve been the heat escaping from the ground. No, he insisted. When it comes, you’ll understand what I mean.
He said he loved the smell of rain and so I showed him mine. I let him in to see my thunder, my scattered rainfalls, my tropical depressions. It was too late when the first of the floods rushed in.
Struggle. Air. Footing. The last time I saw him.
In the early morning when there is quiet, I still hear the boy who cried rain.
This and other 100-word stories in Project 0.1.
♫: Diana Vickers | The Boy Who Murdered Love (2010)