The weatherman predicted torrential rainfall approaching our area. He predicted that it could last through the weekend. He warned us to stay dry and shelter ourselves from the approaching storm. I wish if he knew of the thunderstorm that was brewing in my mind. The gust of wind, bringing potential damage to the synapses of my brain; led by losing control as I make an impact upon those who are caught in my wrath. Can the weatherman predict the magnitude of the damage surging in the heavy depths of my brain? Can he warn the others to prepare for the damage? The damage that is being down to my weeping heart; to my conscience; and to this very vehicle whose tires I have slashed?

Along with using my twelve-inch blade to slash the bastard's tires. I even decorated it in nail polish. I smashed a brick through his windshield. To complete the disaster, I clogged his gas tank with sugar. I don't think the bastard won't be using his vehicle to subdue any wives anytime soon.

I could have gone longer. I even had the crowbar and the poor man's machete to complete. I couldn't. My hands were grasped by the only person I have in my corner right now, my son.

His pleading eyes addresses the same pain. He tells me to stop. It is not worth it. He reaches his hand. I know what he wants. I grip onto it because that is the only source of power I feel I have left. The bastard took everything else of mine, except for myself. Tears escape and drop to the ground. I hope there are hidden roses growing from the concrete where my tears fall. Seeping into the cracks and make something from this horrid world.

Icchan is still there. His hand still in reach. I still grip the gun as I want to further damage the vehicle and among other things. I want to hurt, no, kill this son-of-a-bitch for what he has done to me. I take sharp breaths, biting my lips as I am tasting blood. Something in which I want to taste, but from the man. But from the man….

But from the man who has decided to shit in my kennel. The man who decided to sleep with my wife. The man who calls himself Toshinori Yagi has taken his seed in my wife, the love of my life, time after time after time. And what is worst, the bastard has done in my own damn bed. In the very house where I have slept. In the very house where my son lives. What kind of disrespectful prick do such a thing?

Anger brews. The weatherman needs to tell the people of this town to take cover. For I want to precipitate some shells onto the motherfucker.

Icchan still stands there. He gives me such a pitiful look. I feel sorry for the kid. I know he doesn't like what is going on. But, he doesn't understand what hardship I am going through. He doesn't know when something you love and cherish gets taken away like it is nothing. Just crumpled leaves that tears and tears until there is nothing more to tear. I kind of smile at that point. I mean, I feel nothing.

Well, I am kind of stoned. Learning of your wife's infidelity can make a man ingest things to kill the pain. I wonder how she felt taking in another man's pride that wasn't mine. Did she think of me? Did she think of our son? Did she think of the consequences that come every single fucking time before bathing herself in another man's scent?

I still have my hands tightly grip on the poor man's machete. Icchan is still holding his hands out.

"Give it to me, Dad." He tells me. This time, he edges forward. He takes cautious steps. He is shaking and I know he scared. He should be scared. I am trembling because of the actions that are occurring at this point in time. My feet are planted. My mind is a mess. At any moment, the sirens will be coming. I can picture the howling of its pitchy sound along with its blue and white. It still doesn't compare the sounds of womanly moans calling out the name that doesn't belong to you.

"Give me the gun, Dad." He says again. His voice straining, begging me. I am fortunate that he is my only kin seeing this. He is a boy. I think he can handle more than my nieces or any other family members. They wouldn't understand. I hope they don't. They don't need to see that I am doing a deed that may as well fry me. I keep my grip on the gun. I turn away from my son. I stare into the depths of the driveway. I see the wind drifting from the trees. The toys that remind me of innocence. I have a toy in my hand. A toy that can pack a powerful punch. I look to the front porch where I see red dripping to the concrete.

Besides the jump ropes and the bicycle, I see the bastard grabbing holding to his chest, extending his hand for mercy. The agonal breathing lets me know there isn't much time left.

Inko is very fortunate to not have been there. For a bullet could have cracked or cascaded her into a faded memory; just like our beloved past.

The bastard pleads with me. He begs for mercy. He wants to apologize for the pain he has cost. Icchan still cries out to me to let go of the gun. I can hear his tears. I can hear his wails. He screams that he knows about his mother. He doesn't want to lose his father.

"Mom is already lost, Dad. I don't want to lose you either," he says to me in a strained voice. "It isn't worth it, Dad. You are more than that. I love you and that's what matters. Don't lose your soul for that man. Him of all people." He is walking forward. "I can hear them coming. Please, let go of the gun."

I don't look. My finger is slowly gripping on the trigger. My finger is slowly edging at the stairs. My eyes are wincing from the sweat that poured from my aching head. The thunderstorm is slowly approaching. I turn to the eyes of my own son. He needs to take shelter.

I cock my gun.

"Dad?"

I began to make my aim.

"Dad?"

I close my eyes.

"Dad!"

"I love you, Icchan! Pray for me! Pray for my soul!"

"Dad, no!"

Then the sound of thunder.

"I still love my husband, but I often feel a disconnect with him."

Yet I still love her.

"Does he perform better than I? I can take you into the deeper parts of heaven."

Yet I still love her.

"This doesn't compare to him. I love my husband, but I love how you make feel."

Yet I still love her.

"Run away with me. Start a new life and get away from what's holding you down. The child will be alright without you. He has a father that can provide. You deserve the best. Something much better than what is here."

Yet I still love her.

"You make me feel pleasure in many ways. Nowhere near my husband. Despite loving him, I don't feel that kind of love like I have for you. I am really starting to fall deeper into you."

Yet I still love her.

My ring slowly slips from my finger. It lands on the grass. Blood continues to spill. I hear my son screaming. I let out a smile. I redirect the attention now on me.

Then another sound of thunder.

A couple of years later….

He drove himself here. He brought an umbrella as a precaution, just in case if rain was in the forecast. The weatherman on the radio predicted a slight chance of rain before the end of the afternoon. Those odds were slim. He heard it from the sound of the man's raspy voice of his uncertainty. As he got older, the young man learned to never fully rely on the words of man. Because words can falter as much as items. Words can break just as promises. Promises that consisted of words that were manipulated, misconstrued, and contorted to man's choosing. Using that noun didn't just rely on one gender. It affected nearly anyone that threatened his trust.

"You have conquered, and I yield. Yet henceforward art thou also dead, dead to the world, to heaven, and to hope!"

"In me didst thou exist, and in my death, see by this image, which is thine own, how utterly thou hast murdered thyself."

Edgar Allan Poe wasn't his author of choice, but he completely understood the transgressions that were occurring in his darkened mind. What storm brew within as the author sat in his chair, creating such strong imagery to spit out what he had written for many generations to come and seek after his demise. What wisdom was he relaying? Was he releasing wisdom? Was it a form of self-mockery? No one can tell unless someone was standing in the room with him. Even then, can one predict and detail his thoughts? He believed that Christ had to give the man a second take before considering his life choices.

The owner of this overthinking mind belonged to a boy called Izuku Midoriya. No, nothing was significant about his name. Although honest, the teenager had faults. Nothing that stuck out or can be found in any permanent records or criminal case files. He was just an ordinary teen. And that was something he wanted to be.

He tapped his pen repeatedly on the notepad. A habit when he was thinking. The chew marks on his pen explained that he thinks a lot. Just like Poe, the older he became, the silent he became. He allowed his surroundings to do the communication. He watched, observed. Seeing what language can the body relieve through movement. He had found it better for words can falter as much as items. Words can break just as promises. Promises that consisted of words that were manipulated, misconstrued, and contorted to man's choosing.

At some point, he knew he had to order something. He flagged his usual waitress to see him. The women displayed her frail hands. Judging by her quivering, she had seen better days. Izuku asked quietly for his hot chocolate and a pack of cigarettes. The waitress didn't even write it for it was the same thing he ordered whenever he came. He retrieved back to his domicile he called his thoughts. His mind still thinking on the next move. He looked at the notebook. It looked new as if he had recently purchased it. Green and college-ruled.

Green was his favorite color. It was in his last name. The lining of paper was just to fill whatever thoughts consumed his mind. He remembered one afternoon as he sat back with his classmate, Reiko, on the school roof that she thought that opening up can release tension. Even the little goth that had that kind of concept, the emerald-haired child thought.

He appreciated it, but he kept it confined where it belonged. For as long he doesn't produce any words, then nothing can falter.

He turned to the window. He kept his guard up. He had a reason. That was why he had chosen the certain spot at the end of the diner so he could watch everything and everyone. He knew at some point, the rift was going to be set. Timing was of the essence and there was no time to be wasted.

Residing in his thoughts, residing within his synapses are things he had witnessed and done that were beyond obscene. Things that if he had spoken, then consequences were going to happen. He gripped his teeth tightly around his chewed pen. The sound of its cracking brought him back to the real world.

The real world in which he was planning to leave.

Suicide wasn't an option. There wasn't any way he would give anybody that satisfaction. Izuku may have been a lot of things. In this particular juncture: cowardice, fearful, timid, remorseful. But, he wasn't a quitter on life. He refused to allow anyone that much control and return it to the crushing hands of the devil.

He had a self-deprecating smirk. The idea of taking away my life from the person who had to give me life. Even if that person who has given me life is making me get away from them.

The clock on his cell phone displayed itself to be a few minutes after eleven in the morning. At some point, the school was going to report him absent from school. His mother was at home. Judging with precision, he had only about twenty minutes before he had to leave this diner.

If he wasn't gone within those twenty minutes, his mother would be looking for him.

Time was of the essence.

The waitress returned with his hot chocolate and his pack of cigarettes. Marlboros, unfiltered, his favorite. He silently thanked her and at the same time, asked for a check. He slipped a few singles on the table and stepped out of the booth.

He wasn't heading for the front door. That would have been to easy for him to spot. He made his way around the counter, pushing the doors into the kitchen. The staff, the cooks, they didn't pay Izuku no mind. It was as if Izuku was part of the decor or part of the staff, or he was nothing to them at all.

He made his way out of the kitchen and stepped into the back. It was a loading dock. He knew that today was Monday. Monday was the day when the bakery came and delivered fresh baked goods to the place. He jumped from the loading dock. Still in his hands was the notebook.

He pulled the cigarette from the pack and retrieved it in his pocket. He straightened out his pocket, cautious to not lose the silver ring that once belonged to his father. He covered his hand, lighting the cigarette with his lighter. The lighter was a metal skull. He got it from a thrift store a few days ago. He put the lighter in his back pocket. He inhaled his cancer stick, allowing the fumes to seep into his lungs. It didn't matter for it wasn't words. Smoking spoke the truth without saying it, it showed. He looked to the grey, dull sky. He forgot his umbrella. He didn't feel like it going to get it and he was okay with that.

Things come and go like promises, love, betrayal, and trust.

The sound of a van alerted his attention. An old-fashioned windowless model. The scratches, the chipped paint of whatever business had it before last showed it had better days. The van drove past Izuku, stopping in front of the dumpster behind him. He remained still. The van turned off its engine. Then, the blinkers came on. It made three distinctive blinks. He tossed the cigarette to the pavement, rubbing it with his sole and walked to the van.

He opened his heavy doors, entering the vehicle and closing it heavily. He kept his attention to the dumpster. He didn't look forward. That was one of the requirements of the owner of the van. Izuku took sharp breaths. He didn't display fear. He was cautious. Everything was crucial and timing was certainly a factor.

"What is the word on the subject at hand," questioned the driver. He had a raspy voice. He was a smoker. Izuku heard him tapping hard on the steering wheel. He knew he wanted a cigarette, but wasn't to give it to him until the job was finished.

"She should be here in a matter of minutes," answered Izuku. "Knowing for her, she comes when I am not there."

"No problem," answered the driver. "Are there other details I need to know?" Izuku heard him scratching under his chin. "Something that sticks out. Specifics, you know."

"Nothing," said Izuku. "She has green hair. Short and slim. She carries the persona of being a mother, or at least she did once." Izuku coughed a few times. He knew he was in the mood for another smoke. He pulled the notebook and put it in the center of the console. "Inside the notebook is a set of instructions. It is important that you fulfill these instructions per my request."

"What is it," asked the driver.

"I rather not discuss for it worse comes to worst, but everything you need is within that notebook," answered Izuku. He sighed. "I want it to be somewhat merciful, a merciful a pittance can be. She will be home alone. I left something for you at the table. No one is going to mess with it. It should aid you on the task at hand." He scratched his arm. "Upon seeing her at the diner, this should be your cue to head to the home. As I mentioned previously, she doesn't live far. You should already have her address."

"Ok," said the driver. "Any way of releasing the subject."

"Do what you have to do," explained Izuku. "The main task is what you do following your objective." He patted the notebook. "That notebook is my main objective. There are things that I want my people to see."

"You are sure that they won't flip?"

Izuku smiled. "There is nothing on it but words. Words can be faltered, misconstrued, or contorted. It can be fictitious, or true. Just depends on the person who is looking at it."

The driver let out a haughty laugh. "You are an interesting man, you know that."

He was unmoved. "Nothing extraordinary like me. Just fulfilling a job that a person I knew left unfinished." He reached into his pocket. It was a small manilla envelope. Izuku didn't display eye contact. He put it in the center console. "The keys are in the car. In the notebook are instructions on what to do with it."

"Ok," said the driver.

"I have a friend waiting for me around the corner. We will be at our destination within an hour or so," said Izuku. "Call me when the job is done."

"No problem," said the driver.

"Thanks," answered Izuku. He stepped out of the van and closed the door. He reached into his pocket to retrieve the packs of cigarettes. He tossed it through the window. "As a bonus."

Izuku began walking away from the scene. It didn't matter that the driver exited his vehicle and tossed the keys to another man leaving the loading dock. It didn't matter that the driver was speaking with the other man about the plans. Izuku kept walking until he saw his contact close by. Everything had to deal with timing. Any deviation of those promises led to failure. Just as the weatherman predicted rain in the forecast, he has yet seen one drop fall from the heavens.

But, rain was in the forecast. However, it doesn't necessarily have to come from the sky. Things can get wet, things can get hit, and as always, the rain followed by the sound of thunder.

To be continued….