Uh, it rained at my house, and this happened.

Listen to Fresh Pair of Eyes by Brooke Waggoner while you read it, please.

The Thunder Clap

It's raining at the Murder House.

Violet is out in the gazebo. She was reading, but now her book is tucked safely under her skirt, out of the rain.

It's not just raining. It's storming. Thunder, lightning, wind, rain drops the size of pebbles.

It came all of a sudden. Moira rushed around the house closing windows, and Vivien grabbed the little baby from the blanket laid over the grass. He had been cooing happily at his mother, but erupted into tears the moment the rain started. Violet didn't anticipate him stopping anytime soon.

She saw Tate lurking earlier. Lurking isn't the right word. Watching. Not in a creepy way, just making sure she's alright.

It's been 2 months. All Violet remembers from that night is a moment of screaming that was so loud she wanted to cover her ears like a child, and then Tate was gone. His absence seemed too quiet.

Violet didn't see him for a few days, and she foolishly believed she could get over him. Then he was back and every blond curl made her wet.

The day had been sickeningly humid, but now Violet is shivering, frigid gusts of rain soaked wind beating against her face. She doesn't mind. After being hot all day, a little cold rain feels nice.

A thin fork of lightning flashes right down the middle of the sky. The thunder clap that follows comes in two parts; a low rumble, followed by a roaring, splitting blow that shakes the bones of the Murder House. The baby wails from inside. Violet can imagine her mother clutching the boy to her chest and resuming that natural bounce everyone starts when holding a baby, shushing and rubbing his back desperately.

Violet doesn't feel him approach because of the wind.

"I think the sky is cracking open." Just a whisper in her ear, his breath hot.

She turns to find him halfway across the yard. Violet stands and runs out of the shelter of the gazebo. Her book clatters to the floor and raindrops pepper the cover. Tate is gone again, so she waits, knowing he'll be back.

Her arms raise at her sides and her head falls back. The water slaps her skin.

"Violet, what are you doing? Come inside!" Her father calls from the house. She doesn't acknowledge him.

"The sky is cracking open. What do you think is coming out?"

His voice is right behind her.

She knows he doesn't expect an answer to his question, and any other time she would ignore him. She doesn't give him an answer today, but she gives him something else.

"Stay with me for a while, Tate."

It is by no means forgiveness.

Tate touches the soaked cloth covering her shoulders. His fingers smooth down her arms and cover her hands. They stand together, arms out, faces up, bodies leaning into each other.

Soon Violet's cheeks sting and she looks forward, withdraws her hands from Tate's and wipes the hair from her forehead. She turns around as Tate grasps for her again. With his hands on her lower back and both of them completely soaked in clean rain, Violet kisses Tate.

Maybe the water carried away his sins, feeding the grass at their feet.

His lips are wet and sweet, just as she remembers, like she lets herself imagine late at night.

The rain stops as quick as it began. The sudden quiet shocks Violet; she realizes just what she's doing. She takes her mouth away from Tate's. He's frowning.

Violet's lips feel lonely already.

"Find me the next time it rains," she says softly, and disappears.

Only Tate remains in the drenched backyard. He looks up at the sky again, arms out, the sun and chirping birds swirling with the mist left by the summer storm.