I smile lightly as I walk out from my warm, inviting house and into the cold, gray rain outside. I leave the light pink umbrella behind; I don't need one. I don't need anything but the rain when I'm on the outside looking in.
Walking through the town, I'm happy to notice that nobody is out. The rain makes soft noises as it hits the streets around me, and I can hear the water rushing out from the drainpipes and into the storm drains. Looking inside the houses, I see happy people—people who know how to cry and laugh, unlike myself. People who can feel anger and love; hate and cheerfulness; anger and spite.
People who are not broken, unlike me.
Light inside a window—a man with brown, almost black, hair in a high, spiky ponytail on his head and a woman with four blonde pigtails. They are asleep in front of the windows on a green sofa; her head is on his chest, and her body is pressed against him, while he is smirking slightly and has his arms around her. I wonder if they meet, even in their dreams; if they can see each other in the other's eyes, reflections of love.
The next house harbors another boy and a girl—a girl with blonde hair in a high, long ponytail and a chubby boy with spiky brown hair. She's serving dinner in a blue apron with the letters kiss the cook on the front; he looks like he would be more than happy to do so. I wonder if they are connected, two as one, and if they can always feel each other, even when they are apart; if when one hurts, the other hurts.
My feet are numb from stepping in the cold puddles of water. I can't remember what time it is, what my name is, or what I plan to do out here in the rain. My feet are leading me; they have betrayed my body and have taken me away on a path that I have never traveled. My short hair is sticking to my face and my neck; my clothes are clinging to every curve on my body; not to mention I'm freezing. And yet, here I am, unable to stop walking.
The next house harbors a more unlikely couple—they are simply together. You can't tell it by the way they are spaced apart on the couch while they watch the television, but there is something on the chocolate haired girl's face, something in his white eyes that makes them seem together. I wonder if they never touch or kiss; I wonder if they are simply together, they know it, and they feel no need to prove it to anyone.
The next house I come upon has the tenderest scene I've seen all night. The girl is in tears and the boy is holding her while she cries, his fingers weaving through her dark blue hair as he smiles and tells her that everything will be alright. His cerulean blue eyes meet her white ones, her grip on him tightens and he smiles. I wonder if she never wants to let him go; if she wants him to always be with her, to hold her.
My path is winding; I swear I've been here before. And maybe I have. Then again, maybe I haven't. Maybe I'm hallucinating. At this point, I can't recognize reality from illusion. At this point, I am simple a lifeless being walking through a town bursting with something I don't have and I never will have. Where am I going? Who am I? Why am I here? These are questions I can't answer anymore.
The next house is not as lit as the others, but inside, I can see them—a woman with purple hair in a bun, and a man with silver hair and a scar on his left eyes in a bed together in pajamas. She is on top of him, wrestling him frustratedly to retrieve an orange book from his left hand while he watches her adoringly as her hand falls short time after time. I wonder if he watches her because he wants her to be his and only his; if that look in his eyes is purely one of love.
The next house I come upon is a small one, but still an ideal one. Inside, a man with a senbon in his mouth is grinning down at a woman with short, black hair who is near tears. He pushes a lock of hair from her face and puts his arms around her, ignoring the irate little pig fluttering around his ankles. Without warning, the woman plucks the senbon from his mouth and throws herself on him, passionately kissing him, tears gushing from her eyes. I wonder if she was waiting for him; if she would always wait for him.
What is this? Why is my nose suddenly stinging? Why are my eyes watering? I don't cry. I never cry. I stopped crying. Crying won't help. Crying never helped. It abandoned me when I needed the comfort from it the most. No matter how many times I screamed, nothing changed. The only thing that changed was the temptation of the knife in the pouch I wear on my leg. My, how easy it would be to simply put it to my wrist…
But what is temptation without resistance?
I'm nearing the end of the street now—I can barely make out the end with my blurry eyes. Wait, blurry eyes? I suddenly feel liquid stream down my cheeks and find my fingers reaching up to my face, touching them. Why am I crying? Tears are for the weak. And I refuse to be weak. I refused that many years ago.
One of the last houses I see is simple. Inside, a woman with long, curly black hair and red eyes is arguing with a tan man who has a beard—well, not really; it's more like she's yelling at him and he's simply standing by idly. When he reaches for a cigarette, she snatches the pack from his pocket and throws it across the room. He sighs and puts his arms around her. She wriggles, but eventually gives in and embraces him. I wonder if she can't fight him; if she is simply too in love with him to do so.
The last house is grand; however, unlike the others, this house is empty. This house is empty, but this is the house I love; the house I wish I could come home to. This is the house I take care of. Except for me, everyone has moved on and forgotten this house; the bushes are mangles, vines are growing everywhere, the paint is chipping, and the fountain out front is covered in some sort of fungus.
Everyone has forgotten this house—except for me.
I am here.
I am at the house.
His house.
I left the light pink umbrella behind; I didn't need one. All I need is the rain. The rain does so many things—it hides my long lost tears as the slide down my face, cluttering on my long eyelashes and falling to the ground. It keeps me company as I walk, softly singing a song only I know. It follows me wherever I go, so that I am never alone.
I don't need anything but the rain.
I don't need anything but the rain when I'm on the outside looking in.
Yeah. That sucked. Sorry. I'm depressed, it's late and I can't sleep. I get overly philosophical when I can't sleep.
Love. Hate. Flame. Whatever.