Dry lightning cracked across the sky, sending thunder roaring and reverberating through the house while Jenny sat on the floor against the wall, hugging her knees to her chest. She gazed out the unglazed window, the reflections of the forming storm clouds mirroring the clouds forming in her heart. The fog came inside her, giving her resolve and trying to mask the fear she felt. Jenny could tell when a storm would become a monster, a trait she had gained from her mother.
Her father never had been good with such things, or the fear that accompanied. The whiskey had never given him the chance. He would usually stay in another room—or be rowdy in the same—while Jenny sat with her mother, sharing stories and counting seconds between lightning strikes. The last storm that her mother weathered, four days before she died, she and 6-year-old Jenny had sat and laughed under a blanket, smiling happy until the gale abated.
That was three years ago, and now Jenny sat under her quilt alone.
Other than the obvious, storms now were remarkably similar to what they were before her mother's death. Right now, her father, drunk and passed out on the couch, was the quietest he had been in a long time. She wasn't about to complain, though—at least he wasn't hitting her. She was safe for now.
Lightning lit up the sky again, and Jenny knew it was getting dangerous. At this point, nothing good could come from this storm. She held out for as long as she could, cowering under her blanket, but finally could take the fear no longer. Jenny jumped up from the floor, rushing to the door, where the wind howled on the other side. "Dad!" she called, trying to rouse her father from his booze-induced slumber. When yelling didn't work, she ran to him and shook his shoulder, calling out to him over the roar of the wind. "Dad! Daddy, get up!"
The cellar was damp and musty, and the rain outside stung with every drop, but Jenny could help leaving the door open a crack; just enough for her to be able to peek through and see her house. It was barely visible through the torrent, but she had to abate her curiosity. The wind screamed, and only a carefully placed brick was keeping the door from swinging wildly on its hinges.
Though it was the only thing she had left of her mother's, she couldn't help wishing that the storm would just tear the house to pieces. The evil between those walls…she just wanted it to be cleansed, completely purged by the rain. Just let it all be blown away: every brick, ever board, every slamming door, every tearstained memory.
There's not enough rain to wash the sins out of that house. There's not enough wind to rip the nails out of the past.
As Jenny watched, every window in the house rattled, then shattered, sending shards of glass and bullets of rain cascading inside. The interior would soon be soaked, flooding, debris floating amongst the rooms.
It wouldn't be long now.
Before her eyes, her house was torn to shreds like cloth from the storm of the century. And all the while Jenny sat in the cellar, under her mother's quilt, watching as the home of her scarring memories was destroyed. She watched the rain and the lighting and the wind ravish her house, her father still passed out inside. She hunkered there in the cellar while the storm ravaged.
Some would call it taking shelter. She called it sweet revenge.
Finis