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The Rains (standard:Psychological fiction, 1146 words)
Author: DbAdded: Jun 18 2004Views/Reads: 1793/1061Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
This story chronicles my life long sturggle against "the rains." As the story progresses, it becomes clear that "the rains" is a metafore for despression

It's 6 p.m. and the rains are driving against my window. The pounding is
so deafening that I can barely hear myself think, yet so entrancing 
that I can't think of anything else to ponder. 

The rains have been falling for the better part of my life, whether it
be a gentle drizzle or a torrential downpour. Over the years I've 
learned to accept the rains and live within their bounds, not to step 
outside for fear of getting soaked, not to live my life for fear of 
drowning in the treturous currents that encircle my home. 

I'll always remember the first time I experienced the rains; I was but a
child. Staring through the window, I was transfixed with the water as 
it slowly dropped from the sky. I followed each drop as it descended 
from the heavens and hit the ground, slowly eroding everything in its 
pathway. The earth was so bare at that time; the water had no where to 
go but straight ahead, rushing towards some unknown destination. As 
time passed, I was no longer entranced by the rains, but instead angry 
because it prevented me from going outside and enjoying life. When it 
did finally stop, I cautiously ventured outside as the dark clouds 
loomed ominous overhead. After a few short hours, the rains had 
completely evaporated, once again leaving a barren landscape. On closer 
inspection, however, I realized that the land was no longer flat, but 
that tiny riverbeds had formed, etched out by the merciless rains. 

As I grew, the rains returned more and more frequently, although they
were often erratic. Long periods of showers ended abruptly, ushering in 
a magnificent sunshine that made me forget all about the rains. I 
played as hard I could during those increasingly brief respites, 
capturing every possible moment of freedom and happiness because I knew 
that the rains would return, whether it be in a matter or days, months 
or, infrequently, years. The dark clouds always hung in the distance, 
waiting to make their grand re-entrance and drown all signs of a 
happiness that I had been holding so dear. 

As I developed into a teenager, the dark clouds were a constant fixture
as the sun shrivelled into a hazy speck somewhere beyond the horizon. I 
always knew the light was there, but I couldn't feel its warmth. It 
always seemed to be shining for others, their faces tanned as they 
basked in the glorious light. But I couldn't see it. I knew it was 
there, but I just couldn't make it out amongst those damned clouds that 
hung so low, so low that I felt like I could touch them. I often tried 
to reach for them, to rip them out of the sky, but the end result was 
always the same: the rains came down even harder. 

So I stopped trying. It took me years to come to the conclusion, but I
eventually realized that the harder I tried, the harder the rains would 
fall. I tried to reason with them, promise them things that I could not 
possibly deliver. I tried to bargain. I used to say that if only the 
sun would come out today, the rains could pummel for the rest of the 
month. I waited. I waited for the sun to finally peek through the 
clouds. I stared up at the sky until my eyes hurt. And there were times 
when the sun would start to break through. The clouds would part and a 
few solitary rays would reach the earth, filling me hope for the 
future. But it was not to be. 

As soon as those rays shone upon my pale, sickly face, more clouds would
sweep in and the rains would cascade even harder than before. Perhaps 
they weren't falling harder; perhaps I was so disappointed at having a 
rare hope snatched away that it only felt that way. 

Eventually, I knew that I had to do something about the rains. I laid
down on my bed and thoroughly thought it through. After much 
deliberation, I realized that the only thing I could do would be to 
accept the rains as they were, learn to live under the blackened skies, 
learn to breathe the thick air. So that's what I did. 

At first it was difficult. Naturally, I wanted to rebel against the
rains, but I had to remind myself that this was my new plan of action. 
I dared not say it aloud, but I hoped that in accepting the rains and 
even thriving despite them, that would show them that I was a survivor, 
that nothing was going to bring me down. At that point, they would 
realize that to continue would be pointless, and they would finally 
move out to sea. 

But it didn't happen. I tried to live, but the drops kept falling. I

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