Rainwater No longer a drabble. By Gumnut Jan 2004

Rainwater.

It dripped on the roof like an irregular heartbeat, falling not from the distant sky, but from the overhanging trees, bent under the weight of the sudden downpour.

He sat on the porch, beer in hand, relishing in the cool, wet air, the scent of damp earth filling his nostrils.

He was home.

His haven.

The lake surface shimmered with the repeated echoes of the recent shower, the crisscross of ripples catching the sun as it crept beyond the passing clouds, reflecting and refracting a dazzling display of light.

The sight was beautiful.

He should be happy.

But he wasn't.

His heart beat in his chest like a lone drummer in an empty parade ground, the sound of his blood in his ears, echoes of those lonely notes thrumming in the silence.

He was healthy.

He was whole.

He had friends.

They had driven him here, worried at his quiet, tormented by his silence. Searching for that one thing that could bring him back, turn him into the Colonel they knew.

But he had lost.

Ba'al had taken.

The irreplaceable.

So he sat on his porch and watched the sun come out. Watched Mother Earth, busy with her endless cycles of life.

And tried to forget the cycles of his own.

********** FIN.