Practicing descriptive writing, internal monologue and exploring realistic in-story worldbuilding.
Rain
The rain tapped on the roof in a gentle rhythm. Whispering in my ear, lulling me into a soft daydream. Thunder echoed in the distance, humming the tune of an oncoming storm. I shifted, hard wood pressing into my back, keeping me from slipping into a gentle sleep. I sighed. It always smelt of rain and storms here. Traveling through Water country for the last three weeks brought me a deep, personal understanding of the name. It had been a long, wet and overcast journey that had yet to come to an end. The rain was relentless, slowly seeping into every square inch of my body since the moment I stepped into this muddy, river laden, estuary of a county the people of Rain called home. How anyone could enjoy the constant downpour was far beyond me.
My hair was covered in mud, dried and crusted to every strand. It squished between my toes and filled my pockets with its cool gooeyness. My mind wandered to the soiled clothes that were likely cemented into a clump at the bottom of my soaked pack. Washing them was pointless, they would never dry in time, and we would be leaving at first light. We never stayed in one place too long, it made it too easy to be found, to be watched. I'm surprised that we were even staying inside; I had been thoroughly scolded multiple times for suggesting it. I'm glad we are though, sleeping in the mud and rain isn't exactly pleasant. I mean a two bedroom, broken down house may not be superb, but anything beats swamp soaked sleeping bags on a cold night. There was even a kitchen with dry firewood, a stove and some left-over rice and vegetables. That meant warm food. Real, warm food. Not the soggy ration bars that tasted of chalk and death; clogging up your throat and coating your whole mouth in their strange, bland goo. And definitely not the waterlogged, chewy and all-round foul roots and berries that both smelt and tasted equally like swamp and dead fish. Last month my mouth tasted of crunchy, desert sand; now it tasted of mud. I never thought I could miss the taste of sand so much.
The pattering of bare feet on wooden floors pulled me out of my reflection,
"Food."
I let my head fall lazily to the side and our eyes met. There was a moment of silence, charcoal eyes stared at me for a still moment, before they turned and left:
"Come."
I sighed, sluggishly attempting to get up. I was tired. Tired of walking. Forcing myself to move was like wading through a pool of sticky molasses. I lingered under the overhanging roof, glancing around the back garden one last time before ambling inside. My eyes flitted over the old furniture packed into the front room. All placed just a centimetre too close so you would repeatedly bump into it. A thin layer of damp dust coated each piece, tickling at my nose. Without maintenance, the rain had clearly gotten in and started eating away at anything and everything. A slightly rotted coffee table here and a mouldy couch there. Though from their appearance they hadn't been top quality, even before. Most of the stuff in here seemed to be cheap and old, but it made sense. It's hard to buy good furniture when you can barely afford to eat. Two, half empty glasses rested on one of the side tables. It was milk, with little chunky bits in it, you could smell it even from the other side of the room. The whole house tasted musty and mouldy; it almost made me question the food we were about to eat.
I wandered into the kitchen. A pair of glasses, the wooden frames cracked and damaged, sat on one of the counters. A small toy lay in the corner, forgotten. Two chipped plates and one large bowl of steamed carrots, rice and potatoes stood on the low kitchen table. I sat down, cross-legged, the hard-wooden floor once again pressing into me. A small part of me wanted to feel bad, this was someone's home and we were intruding, using their things, eating at their table. But the guilt was short lived because I never realized carrots and potatoes could smell this good and my mouth was watering. In my defence, I doubted they were coming back anytime soon if the half-packed boxes with clothes barely folded said anything. Even the door had been left ajar. It was clear. They had run. Most people had. Taken what they could carry and left. Hunger and loss does that to you. When the aching emptiness claws at your stomach and grief eats your mind, you do the only thing you know you can. It was fear, they were afraid. I was too, so was everyone I knew.
But now I'm here.
Not running, not anymore.