Forecast: Rain
It was raining. She loved the rain. The soft pitter-patter that drizzling rain made on her rooftop, and the angry rain that came down in gushing torrents, and made noises as if the sky was falling.
She would listen to it during the night; listen to the hurt, and watch it during the day; watch the pain. The rain made her so sad, listening to it, thinking of her past, and all the horrible things that had happened in her life, but oh that rain mad her so angry, they would pay, these people that had made her life miserable al these years. When she thought about them, she was so filled with righteous anger for herself, and her family that she had to lie down, and breathe deeply, slowly, slowly, blocking out everything, letting it all slip away.
When she watched the rain, she would play the cycle in her head, and imagine that it was her tears. A single raindrop fell from the sky, helpless, hopeless, and came crashing to the ground with such a force that only a tiny raindrop, or tear can have.
And as it would crash to the ground, it would split into tiny pieces, and splash back up, as if it were trying to escape its inevitable end, alas, the tiny droplets fell straight back down to their doom. Fragments of herself would slip away with that drop of water, as it faded into the soil, taking with it all the secrets of her past.
Sometimes, she would even stand outside in the rain, she would stare up at the sky, and observe the drenched world around her, letting the raindrops fall onto her delicate face, she would wince when they hit her eyes. She would stand silent there, until she was soaked through, when her clothes were sticking to her body, and her sodden hair was clinging limply to her drenched face.
It was then that she cried, when she let the tears flow, and all the emotion and pain of past years came flowing out of her fragile body, it all seemed to float away, and she was free again from the things that held her captive.
Her salty tears would mix with the fresh rain, and she would stand there. Silently, still. She was being cleansed, healed from things of her past.
This is how Violet Baudelaire loved the rain. Violent, futile, and depressing.
It was raining.