If you wanna read this with full ambience, go to A Soft Murmur, put up the rain sound effect and then read this.
This is M, cause in my 15K week (tbf, I've just written 3K of words in a day, again wtf and I doing with my life sometimes) story I said it was important to talk about serious issues as they're avoided too much and they're literally just the human condition. So to put forward my experiences having dealt with mental illness and depression (I'm represented by Benedict) and helped someone in remembering their abused and rape times (Won't reveal who this is) I made this story.
I hope in some way that you can understand and talk about this more, whether it's with me, other people, in a review, or whatever. Just get up and do it. More needs to be done.
The Rain
It pittered and it pattered.
The room walls were a quiet but rich blue. The bed took up the central area, affixed to the back wall where it could be raised to access storage space underneath it. It was a simple room, everything was pushed to the edges. The wardrobe was a part of the wall and would only reveal itself when pressed in the right place, though it was ajar with lingerie divulging from it, the small and elegant side tables only held lamps rested upon them. One of them was turned on somewhat filling the room with an orange glow that contrasted against the blue. Polaroids littered one wall, spreading out from a chalk circle drawn on it. There was no TV across from the bed, the owners deciding against it but there was a bookcase. It sat tall and unconflicting with other colours in the room. Grey ambient light suffused the room, spilling in from the windows, dampening the orange from the lamp. It softly lit the still sleeping body on the bed, the white delicate sheets still curled around her, only her hair poking out. The space next to her was ruffled, a missing person, her hand still laying in the empty space, trying to grasp someone who wasn't there. Her hand tensed, squeezing, clutching the empty sheets next to her in a vain attempt for warmth. She snuggled closer, only to find an empty indent, a cold spot. Satin curtains fluttered on the sides of the windows as they watched with indifference the rain hit their glass partners. The small conical lights above them remained dutifully off, sticking to their dutifully ordered times. The small body bundled itself up into a ball, the head slightly going underneath the sheets. Her hair remained out, the long blue and cream locks flowing down over the duvet. Her hair was a permanent length, one of the many small prices for the job, because cutting synthetic fibres was expensive. Considering it could reach her ass, she left it out whenever she slept.
The face moved slightly. It scrunched up, tense, defiant, disobedient. Against waking up. She flicked the covers over her head quickly, holding her arms in front of her face. With a soft flump, the sheets landed on top of her. A hump sat in the middle of the white duvet, blue and cream hair was pressed awkwardly against the pillows and the wall. A small sleepy groan was emitted from the hump. It got larger and larger until it fell back, revealing the drowsy occupant. Her hands wiped her face, beautiful, small, cute, curiosity filling it as it looks around slowly. Her cyan eyes blinked slowly, focusing on the lamp. She yawned, loudly. Her previously dainty mouth a now gaping vortex that seems to encompass her hand. It stops, her lips back to their usual form, plump and petite. She reached out across to the lamp and switched it off, the room filling with silver. She gazed at it, her hand no longer a warm invitation of flesh. Her skin ashen grey in the light, her smooth forearms paler than she'd ever remembered. She looked down at her white t-shirt. Well, it wasn't really hers but she might as well have owned it, the previous owner was in no rush to reclaim it. Besides, he was a whole 10 inches taller than her so for once she had a baggy t-shirt that didn't conform to her breasts. She looked down further and remembered. She was wearing his boxers as well. She smiled to herself, rubbing her ass against the bed, the black fabric feeling so nice against her skin. Why were men's clothes always so much more comfortable?
She looked up. The door was slightly open, a flitter of light coming through it into the room. She crawled forwards to the edge of the bed, slipped her legs off the edge of it and stood up, the white fluffy carpet feeling so good between her toes. Cleaning it was such a chore though, remembering the milk. She walked quietly, pushing open the door slowly. The rest of their apartment came into view and she shivered slightly, the air still and cold. Well, their apartment that was a part of the building they owned together. Alright, the building she owned. A white duvet emerged from around the corner. She frowned slightly, she wasn't that much of a pain to sleep with? Okay, slow down, this is a first time. She walked around the corner, realising it wasn't even the thing she was worrying about. He didn't lay there, sleeping on his own. He sat there. Just there in front of the massive glass panes with about quarter of the duvet around him, his legs crossed, a steaming mug in his hands. She smiled dropping onto the duvet on her hands and knees and pawing over to him, her hair trailing behind her. She nuzzled her head against his thick shoulder enjoying his warmth as a hand came up and stroked her hair.
"I'm not a kitten you know," She whispered, sitting down next to him. She picked her knees up and hugged her legs to her chest, leaning against him for support.
"Then don't act like one," he lifted the duvet up and around her shoulders, and arm sneakily slipping around her waist "You're cute enough to be one"
She smiled and rested her head on his shoulder. Something warm was pressed into her hands and she took the mug gratefully. She sipped at the cocoa, the hot liquid warming her up immensely. Her skin felt incredibly cold in comparison to his which burned. His mug only had a quarter left. She blinked and realised there was another empty mug sitting slightly off in front of them.
"Something wrong sweet tooth?" she smiled as she closed her eyes, the hot chocolate powered heat coming from him warming her cheek.
"Ah, no, I will not accept sweet tooth. We've been over this. Cookie Monster I'll accept, even if I prefer biscuit monster," he squeezed her slightly, a faint smile on his lips.
"Biscuit Monster doesn't have the same ring to it though. It's not as iconic,"
He stuck out his tongue a little way "I'm British, you married me, deal with it,"
She giggled "I do, you make me eat healthily, teach me how to do the chores, force me to have holidays and help keep me fit. You're such a pain in the ass," she whispered. He smirked slightly. She opened one eye to glare at him. "Stop it, you utter child,"
"Sorry," he whispered. He sipped his mug, then drained it, putting it with the other empty mug. He sat, silent. His eyes unmoving. She watched him, one hand slipping into his lap carefully, the other nursing the mug between her thighs. He wasn't smiling, but there wasn't sadness, or fear or anger or anything on his face. He simply stared, not content and happy, not fearful and anxious, or regret and sadness. She smiled to herself and closed her eyes, his image flittering across her mind's eye. The white t-shirt nuzzled against her cheek. It was always t-shirts. He'd hopelessly tried shopping but still and had bought some pretty stylish stuff, yet all he wore was t-shirts. They'd matched completely. She did like owning her own clothes and wearing them, but just slipping into his, stealing them, it just made her feel ever closer to him.
They sat in silence.
A content silence.
An understanding silence.
His head came to rest on hers lightly, his hand around her started tracing circles on her thigh.
"See, this is another reason why I like you," he whispered into her hair. "You don't assume anything's wrong,"
"Why should I?" She whispered back, her free hand tracing circles in his free hand.
"People just do," he whispered "Oh god, you've gone through a traumatic experience, something must be wrong if you're quiet,"
She smiled sadly, the truth biting, her back itching. She knew his pain well, though together they'd lessened the burdens. Communication and understanding was key. He was always very blunt and she'd ended up learning from him a little. How he was feeling was set out on the table and why followed by what would help if help was needed. She did the same back to him. Love he'd said, is not something to fall into. Love doesn't have to be a madness, it doesn't have to be crazy, or a rollercoaster or blind. Love can be a choice. And I choose to walk into love, not fall, swoon, crushed, struck or smitten (Which is from the word "smite" which the gods did a lot of). She'd listened, he was the more serious one of them. They'd grown together, not doubting one another, listening, understanding, confiding. He'd asked what fantasies she had, what she loved imagining. She'd been nervous at first to tell him the answer. She didn't want to distance them, to make him think differently of her and so she'd refused at first. But eventually, she told him. Good sex is a skill and they'd practiced. It was awkward, slow and hard to do at first but now it was like nothing she'd ever experienced. Emotionally, mentally, physically, professionally, he looked after her. She had someone who'd changed her. She had someone she'd never give up even if others had.
"It's beautiful," she heard him whisper. She drew back a bit and watched him, he carefully raised himself back into his normal position, staring again. She watched him, looked down at the almost empty mug she had, at herself, at the apartment and all around her. He blinked and looked at her, smiling slightly. "You don't see it do you?"
She shook her head gently. He smiled, deftly moved her mug to the others and slipped both arms around her, one around her legs the other around her waist. She smiled widely as he picked her up and placed her in his lap, her head just fitting under his. It always felt so cosy whenever he did this. Cosy and safe, his arms around her. She knew he would protect her from anyone, just like she'd protect him from himself. She pressed her back against his disfigured chest and smiled into her knees. She purred teasingly, her hair draping over her shoulders and onto the floor. He flicked it over his shoulder gently and rested his head upon hers, the gentle weight giving his protective presence.
"You haven't been seeing it all this time, even though it's right in front of you," he whispered, his arms slipping completely around her.
She looked. In front of her was a massive glass pane. It led out onto the porch of their apartment. Out there on the deck was enough space for a barbeque, several chairs and it led down to the massive outdoor swimming pool. She supposed it'd been originally designed that photoshoots were meant to happen in this apartment. She was glad they didn't.
And she stared.
It was raining.
She watched as each little droplet fell from the sky and crashed down to earth, hitting the many a various objects they had out there. Some slammed into the chairs, pinging as they hit the metal that split them apart. Some of it fell straight into the pool which was overflowing, the drainage systems unable to keep up. It sloshed down over the side of the building, crashing down onto the pavement below. Thankfully there were no fans standing in a massive line all around the building. Giant blobs of rain sometimes hit the roof of the barbeque creating a massive echoing clang, the pitch depending on where it hit. Droplets covered it, each sliding down, escalating in speed as the metal drop only got steeper. And the rest all landed on the wooden deck, the rumbling beating base notes thudding like the massive heart of it all. It was slick and darker than ever before, the wood unable to absorb anymore. Then it splattered against the window occasionally. The droplets hung there, water tension holding them in place until a heavy one came tumbling down, swallowing, and gobbling up droplets as if some colourless Pacman had the right to this window. Sometimes the drops raced one another down the window, sudden stops, sudden starts, big bursts of speed and then a sudden dry patch, no other droplets to refuel themselves.
She watched rain like she'd never watched it before, as if some carnival had been there forever but had only just now turned on their massive lights. It danced and spun and sung and raced. All this, from rain. But-
"You think this is beautiful?" She asked. "Rain is beautiful?"
"Yes. To me, rain is beautiful," he said, his head nuzzling her hair.
She turned to look at him. He was not lying, or laughing or playing her a fool. He truly believed rain was beautiful. She gripped his shirt, desperate to know another part of him.
"Why?"
A hand went through her hair, it slid down to her back and rested there, making small circles with it as he watched her. He looked like he had an answer already, as if he'd had one for years.
"Cause rain is the life giver. Cause rain causes the light to displace, cause we get puddles and umbrellas and specifically designed cameras. Cause rain clears the air and cuts through the sky. Cause rain makes them all go away, life responsibilities, the humans who're late and each take a taxi until it is just me. Standing in the rain. The rain is where I grew up. It is my second home. And I think it'd beautiful," he whispered, placing a small kiss on her head.
She snuggled into his chest, her head placed up against his neck. She closed her eyes, her knees coming up into his lap. "That sounded like a poem,"
"Well," He smiled "I do come from the land of poets,"
"So rain is beautiful huh?"
"Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. You may not find rain beautiful, but then I don't find the "Miss Universe" models beautiful. They're literally exactly the same person, blond hair, blue eyes, exact same face, exact same nose, eyebrows, everything,"
"Not a fan?" she smiled into his neck.
"It was the first time I'd realised that old racist saying "They all look the same" is most applicable to white people," He said exasperatedly. "Not a fan,"
She closed her eyes. She scratched her back. There was a time she didn't want to be beautiful. There was a time she wasn't. She knew it, that there was no escape, and that she'd given anything to not be beautiful. Until she wasn't. She most surely wasn't then. No one would see her as beautiful. No one would see her anything but defiled, broken, ashamed. She rubbed her wrists. There hadn't been any point in her living. What if she was like that again? She'd be abandoned. No one would want her. She was defiled. She was pitied. She was ugly.
Tears streamed down her face as she curled up tighter. Fear gripped her heart as her surroundings disappeared. And just her churning fear. That anxiety gripped her, as if she teetered over the edge. As if she was falling back on a chair, waiting for it to hit the floor that never came. It gripped her, made her stay in that moment. She could smell blood in the air, memories flashing before her, reminding her of the whips against her back. She fled from it, scrambling to get away and curling up to stay safe. She found she couldn't escape. It stung, the pain of her gripping too hard. In a panic she licked the blood. But she couldn't feel her tongue against her hand. She blinked and felt a smooth motion down her back, she spasmed in fear, but it didn't hurt. It was gentle, it was kind. She blinked, looking at the hand that wasn't hers. Her nails had dug in, drawing blood. Muffled words were slowly coming into focus, as coming from underwater. She found the arms around her, holding her safe, keeping her from harm. She heard her name being called, gently, softly. Her tears stopped running as she realised it was his hand bleeding. She looked up into his face. Not a single ounce of blame, victimisation, exasperation or pity. Just happiness. She bawled, smothering his shirt.
She stopped crying slowly, his thumbs wiping away her tears from her soft skin. She gripped his wild, messy brown hair, rubbing his head as if it would do something. She sniffled, not looking at him, unable to handle his blunt honesty. His eyes that never strayed. His sincerity. God why did she believe him. He never cared when it mattered, always away, working, meetings, preparation. She didn't deserve him or his time. He should use it more wisely than on her. He would be fine on his own, he was strong, independent, not like her.
"I'm so ugly. Why do you even love me?" she whispered, her nose giving way.
"Cause I think you're beautiful,"
"No I'm not!" She yelled, her voice echoing through the apartment. She stood on her knees, angrily glaring down at him. "Everyone out there thinks I'm amazing and beautiful and none of them know. No one would if they knew the truth!"
"I do though,"
He was silent for a very long time. The only sound that filled the room was the rain, her rapid angry breathing and her occasional sniffles in a war against her snot. Her nose lost and mucus started dribbling down her nose in a slow inevitable, unstoppable speed.
He looked at her. She didn't look at him. He stood on his knees and face over to her, merely inches apart now. He gently moved her face to look at him. She resisted and fell back. Grabbing her wrists and holding her to the ground, he stared her in the face. She struggled furiously but he was too strong.
"Let go! You deserve someone better! Let me go!" She cried into the carpet, the tears running freely, unable to accept this life. It was too cruel, she didn't deserve this, she deserved nothing. Everything was her fault, the fights, the company, weather, their time, their secret, the attacks, all the stress, the rape, abuse, everything. It was all her fault! She should've just died years ago with the other girls. She should've-
"I know what you've been through. You yourself told me. I've seen them, your scars. And I do not care. Even if you were to turn into the most horrific thing on this earth, you will still be the most beautiful thing in my life. I love you. So please, stop it. It's not your fault,"
She sobbed, unable to hold it anymore. He picked her up off the floor gently, hugging her to his chest. The waterworks continued for a bit but soon left until she curled up into a ball in his arms. He drew the duvet around them again and they sat in front of the window pane. Silent.
A small tapping on his chest. He looked down at a red, puffy eyed girl looking apologetic up at him.
"Sorry," she whispered. "It's been a long time since I had my last panic attack. Thought I'd gotten past them now,"
"Over a year and a half ago if I remember correctly," he murmured, stroking her cheek "Don't worry about it. Those are things that will follow us for life,"
"You haven't had one in over 2 years now," She whispered.
He smiled at her "I've got a pretty good distraction,"
She smiled back, curling into his chest and staring out the window with him. She knew he'd always be there for her. Despite the occasional cursing, the disagreement, often trying to skip out on certain disciplines or routines, having to ignore one another for business, she knew he'd be there. Because as he said, they walked into love. The communicated, they listened, they didn't assume. Or at least she was getting better at that.
"I think I'll look at rain a bit differently now,"
"Wanna go stand outside in it?" he asked, blowing on her hair.
"You just want me in a wet t-shirt," she said, poking his nose playfully.
"Well… I'd be lying if I said I didn't, but that's not my main reason," he smiled, cuddling her.
They sat in silence a little while longer. His fingers traced along her back gently, her rubbing circles into his heart behind the disfigured chest. Her fingers went up to his shoulder, then down his arm slowly, feeling his biceps up along the way. They smiled together as she did this, always in appreciation of his training. It went all the way to down to his wrist where she traced his tattoo. She'd read the book it'd came from after he'd been pretty cryptic about it. It was one of two, the other one taking up nearly all of his back.
"Think I should get one?" she asked him vaguely, staring off into space, as if she was looking through the tattoo.
"Only if you want one and have a reason to get one," he said shrugging "I don't think there much point to one unless it means to something to you. That's just my opinion though,"
"I kinda want one to cover them up, but at the same time, I wanna keep them. As a reminder,"
"I think you should get one. Then you don't have to think about it again,"
"You got yours to think about it though didn't you?!"
"Yeah well, I'm weird that way,"
"Why would you wanna remember having a panic attack?" She muttered.
He shrugged "Why would you wanna forget?"
They sat in silence. They cuddled a little closer until they were laying on the floor, spooning, until she ruined the spooning and placed her face into his chest.
It was a comfortable carpet.
"Hey Benny, your nose looks biteable,"
"What? ARGJH–Sona!"
"Wua?"
"That hurts!"
A laughing blue haired girl runs through the apartment, followed by a messy brown haired boy, chasing her with a pillow, a smile stamped across his face.
Benedict and Sona. The mentally ill and depressed married the abused and rape victim. He suffers Severe Death Anxiety and Depression, she from abuse as a teenager leaving long scars on her back and rape from said abuser.
Yet they are human. And they are alive.
What a wonderful life they live.
FIN
Is it wrong to see Sona as American? If I was to classify which countries champions came from?
My apologies to anyone who comes across this twice cause I posted this twice but under advice and in an effort to get it out to more people I've posted it as a chapter and a stand alone story so sorry if anyone is annoyed by this