Caught in the Storm is a work of fiction. I do not own anything. All characters, pictures, and/or songs that are contained in this work of fiction do not belong to me. Any characters, pictures, and/or songs that resemble those that are in the show Grey's Anatomy or otherwise do not belong to me. Please read and review, I have been toying with this idea for a while. I had previously posted this story on another GA website a long time ago, but decided to edit it and post it here as well. It picks up a bit slowly, but bear with me!
Hope you enjoy! :)
Chapter One
The air was thick with humidity—so thick you could reach out and touch it. Thick enough that it took extra effort to inhale it and break it down it into the life- sustaining oxygen the lungs needed to keep working. Trying to breathe this thick, heavy air was even more difficult when one was running for miles on end in the deep sand along the beach. The only way running was possible at all this morning, was because of the breeze that cut through the thick, muggy substance. It was just enough to allow one to breathe it in. But even the breeze wasn't enough to make this bearable. Only a crazy person or an obsessed runner would have even tried to keep up her daily routine in these conditions. But for some, running was as necessary as breathing. It certainly was for her. And so it must be done.
The sun was alternately peeking in and out from behind the scattered grey clouds, dappling the beach with its rays, and then hiding, as if to make sure its handiwork had been appreciated. A lone seagull flew along the shore looking for its breakfast. So far, he had been disappointed. There were no ships or sailboats on the horizon. The waves lapped at the shore as they always did, the grey water slowly slipping away this morning as the tide pulled out. Even the ocean seemed to want to leave the beach today. The scene was desolate, lonely, dark and foreboding.
Aside from the hungry seagull, the beach was completely deserted. While it was never crowded this early in the morning, there were however, a few stray souls out to walk, drinking in the morning as it unfolded, the waves gently lapping onto the sand. Not today. Except for the lone runner, pushing herself to follow her course, and finish her run, fight through the pain in her chest, fighting to breathe in the cool, morning air. Her internal struggle, the motivation she needed to keep moving, to not look back. Those who knew her—even those closest to her —would have just assumed this was like any other morning run for her. She looks healthy and fit. But inside, she was miserable.
Inside herself, only she could feel the pain. Of inhaling the muggy air, the feeling as though she was wandering off in her mind, even though she's on her usual path. She was fighting to clear her head of her fears, fight them, so that she can feel a slice of normality through her pained body. She was fighting a losing battle though, the battle to forget the memories that always closed in upon her, each and every time, there was news of a very bad storm approaching. It was a futile fight, and she knew that. As long as she's breathing, she's never going to be able to forget, to wash away the memories, the dreams, the fears. They're what make a person, but they're also what tears a person apart.) As she neared her destination, the lonely runner chastised herself for the struggle.You should be able to do this without struggling. Today is just like any other day. You run, five or six days a week, and twice as far. Why is this a struggle now? Why the pain? What are you wimping out? You call yourself a runner… it's pathetic!
…
As she reached the wooden steps that led to the house, she flopped down onto the sand, preparing to untie her shoes. She propped her elbows up on her bent knees, letting her head fall towards the sand, breathing in and out deeply to catch her breath again. She knew she should stretch and cool down, but knowing and doing, are two entirely separate things. She figured she'd done the hard part—the painful, slow, off-beat running. Today was not a day to expect more from herself. But when did she ever cut herself any slack? Never. Not even today. She still wouldn't stretch. But she'd berate herself about it. As her breathing returned to something resembling her normal intake, she raised her head and peered out over the horizon. The view was fairly ordinary except for the absence of boats and lack of people down on the tiny, public beach. It was as if she were the only person on an abandoned planet; no sounds, and no signs of human life. Only the waves, lapping at the shore, pretending that they wouldn't soon become horrid monsters, lashing out at everything within their reach. On a day like that, the beach isn't the serene place people like it to be. It becomes like her internal struggles, a mess of waves, wind and sand.
As her eyes travelled up to look at the sky, she found it unremarkable. To the naked eye, this appeared to be just an ordinary morning on the coast. Ironic, she thought, that a storm could be brewing and growing and closing in on them, yet the sky was so calm and ordinary. It didn't even appear to be threatening rain. But she knew the rain was coming-rain and wind and the fury of the storm.
In her opinion, meteorologists on the whole were overpaid pretty people who read what their staff learned from their research and saw on their radar and forecasting models. But even the real morons in the bunch, had a hard time missing a storm like the one that was coming. Where it would go was the biggest question. Most were predicting landfall an hour or two west of here. Even so, the weather here would be difficult, and the people in town would be in danger. But the models showed a wide path and noted that the storm could shift direction quickly. She shuddered involuntarily when she thought, even for a moment, of what it might be like if the storm came closer.
Any sane person would've left when they put out the evacuation order, put up the plywood on the windows, and moved everything that might go airborne, inside before locking up, and getting caught in the snarls of traffic, leaving the coast for the safer inland territory, would have listened to their never-failing instincts, instincts that were screaming that this was not a storm to be taken lightly. But she has long given up pretending to be a sane person. Not about storms. Not ever again. As she pulled her aching body up off the sand, and brushed off the back of her shorts, she sighed and turned to climb the steps. A run was usually invigorating for her—the best way to start her day. But today's run had left her feeling tired and slow. She knew she'd shake its weight off of her shoulders eventually, but it appeared that doing so was going to require some effort on her part. Effort she didn't feel like expending.
She sat down on the bench, untying her running shoes, hoping that slumping forwards to do so, would stretch her back out a bit. Sitting back up, shoes in her hand, she moved to put them in the cabinet they were always stored inside of, and headed for the wooden shower stall they had installed outside. She stripped down, dropping her sweaty, disgusting clothes into a pile on the floor. Her runs always left her sandy and dirty, showering outside simplified life in so very many ways. It had been in the works for a while.
A contractor had suggested adding a new wing to her house, equipped with a mudroom, shower, and storage space. She laughed and told him that she really just wanted an outdoor shower, and a new entrance to her laundry. She wasn't looking to build a mansion, equipped with every amenity. She wasn't a resident of Pensacola, she couldn't afford Pensacola. He had appeared frustrated with her limited vision, he wouldn't make a very big profit from it. Yet, he had complied with her wishes, and whilst convinced she could've done it herself, he found a local construction worker and plumber, more than willing to take on the task. She smiled at the complete simplicity and pleasure of being able to strip off one's clothes outside, and shower with the sun shining down and the sky overhead. It was much like bathing in the ocean, only without the grit and grime and sand and salt that brought with it. And she could be naked outside, without having the neighbors call the police and have her arrested—that was a nice bonus.
…..
She sighed as the hot water hit her cool, sweat-laden skin. The contrast was wonderful and relaxing. She began the mundane tasks of washing her hair and her body, willing herself to relax and rise up from the fog that had been weighing it down on her run. Her shower complete, she donned a large towel from the cabinet and made her way along the wooden walkway to her laundry room. The shoulder-high wooden privacy screen kept her mostly hidden from view and blocked the wind a bit. Inside, she threw her dirty clothes directly into the washer and started a load of laundry. She made her way upstairs and put on some clothes. Now what? She thought. She wasn't on call today, so there wasn't an excuse for her to go to the hospital.
The storm wouldn't begin to hit until late in the evening, giving her an entire day to waste. She was unaccustomed to having free time, it always makes her feel uneasy. Considering she still has to put up plywood, and haul the patio furniture inside, her day will be pretty much full. Well, she considered, you still have to put the plywood up and haul the patio furniture inside. That should keep you busy. But doing those things meant facing reality and thinking of the approaching storm. And she wasn't ready to do that yet.
At heart, she was an avoider—especially when things got really emotional or threatened to get under her skin. Avoiding difficult, painful situations was second nature to her. As was running. She'd spent her whole life running from memories, too painful to remember, her mother, running from the loneliness she felt. She ran when the mood struck, or when things got so painful, that she needed to run for a change. Staying somewhere, required patience and endurance, commitments she had never been good at. She never had any of those qualities, hold out in any one place for too long. She's a runner. It's who she is, what she does. It's her thing.
By this point in her life however, she had literally stopped running to different places. While she didn't feel firmly rooted yet, she had stayed here longer than anywhere in her adult life. After her time overseas and the cross-country move here, she had lived in this town for five years. So now, instead of literally picking up and moving away from her problems, she stayed in town and ran along the beach, always returning to her home and the new life she'd made here. She had learned—albeit slowly—that running didn't help you escape your problems at all. No matter how hard you tried. And she had surely tried. It was the storm that had unearthed that old gripping fear that made her want to jump in her car and move somewhere else. Only when the storms came, was she tempted to leave the comfortable-if not glowingly happy-life she had made for herself. This was because she had decided to stop running-the moving kind of running, anyway. She had moved here and decided that her days of running away were over. She had purposefully selected this tiny town as her home, so that she could stay, and face her fears and her demons and stop running away from her life, and her loss, and all that had happened to her. Facing the storm was the very reason she lived here. Knowing that, and believing it was the right thing for her was easy on most days, when the sun shone down. Life was good. Better than it had been. Holding onto these facts as the storm approached, was the hardest thing she's ever done.