Raindrops.
Fat, swollen raindrops that splashed down on the yard, the broken fence, the rooftops beyond.
The earth drank them until it overflowed, and the rain made brown puddles in the hollows between the weeds.
It beat against the panes of her window. Each raindrop hit the glass with a sickly sound, like a boot stomping on a rotten tomato, endlessly, ceaselessly. Splat. Splat.
Mesmerized by the rain, Violet came to the window. She leaned against the frame and breathed on the glass, creating a patch of fog that evaporated slowly in the cold room. Violet watched it fade with dull eyes.
She moved her head slightly to look out at the grey world. And then the grey emptiness inside her overcame her, and tears rose, large and fat like the raindrops. They poured from her eyes, unbidden, unwanted, uncontrollable. Violet's shoulders shook, and her chest tied in a knot too tight for her to breathe. She slid slowly to the floor. Sobbing. Weeping. Bawling now, bawling because her heart was broken, and there was no one to hear, no one to care. She swayed, and her vision spun around the room, now landing on the unmade bed, now pausing at the scuff marks on the floor, the filthy sock in one corner, the gash in the curtain where his knife had snagged, the empty beer can, the scattered trash, the smear of blood on one wall. And her desperate gaze came to rest on this smear, looking but not seeing. Such a small hand it was, that had made that smear. So young. But she cried out, and forced herself to look away, to not think about that hand. To not think about anything. She pulled herself together, firmly. She would not cry. Crying would not help. Violet wiped her nose on her sleeve and stood up. Shaking, still. She almost fell, but caught the window sill in time. She stared out at the pounding rain. She would not give up. She could not give up. She was the eldest Baudelaire child.
And now she was the only Baudelaire child…
Violet choked, and a new wave of tears burst forth. This time she could not force them back down. She fell to the floor, and she lay there and cried.
Outside, it grew darker as the day waned. Still the rain continued, though it had long since turned the yard into a soupy mess, and washed part of the fence away, and made the rooftops glisten in the dim evening light. The rain fell, but it was silent now. Silent. Cold. Stern.
Heartless.