...as though it was a horror song.

Rain... rain... go a-way...

She use to hum it under her breath, gently, slowly, as though it was a horror song. She would stare out the window, and the rain would fall. And she would cry.

She always cried when it rained. It was just something she did. She was more sensitive, and always wanted to read emotional stories. She watched shows about puppies and kittens, but they would always die. She would draw a bunny, but her sister would it rip it up. Then she would run out of the house, screaming, "How can anyone live like this? How can anyone take this?" He would find her in a pile in front of his house, soaking wet and breathing quickly and curled up into the fetal position. Sometimes he would sit there with her, rocking her back and forth, really slow like a mother with her child. When she would point this out he would stop rocking, and she would smile.

Other times he would bring her inside and sit her in front of the fireplace and bring her dry clothes and make sure no one watched her when she changed, but he would. He would try not to, but he would. He would see how she was so small, so skinny. Her breast were perky, and her hips curved ever so perfectly in his eyes. Her hair would run down her back to her buttocks, straight from the weight of the water. Her skin was pale but slightly flushed, and she was everything he ever imagined she would be.

He loved the way she looked in his clothes, the way his pants would fall down when she'd pull them up, or how her hands would disappear under the sleeves of his sweatshirt, or how the neck was too big and when she'd leaned over she would hold it to her so he couldn't see down, smiling and teasing him about wanting to see her naked, and he would laugh inside his head because she never really knew he did.

Or, one time she came into his room, and he laid there with her, holding her. And then she looked into his eyes, and they said what she never said, how much she truly loved him. But she never had to say it, because saying it would just make it real and they were in their fantasy world then, when it would rain. And then they kissed, clinging to him, holding onto her for dear life. He needed her then more then ever, and she needed him.

But when it didn't rain she wouldn't cry for him, he wouldn't hold her; they would pretend that never happened because that was their fantasy world and this was the real world. And when it rained on her wedding day it hurt him. She wouldn't come crying to him anymore, he couldn't watch her change anymore, he couldn't kiss her anymore. Yet the only thing he ever regretted was not telling her how much he loved her.

He did tell her, the day before Halloween in 1981. Her husband and their friend outside with her son, their other friend having disappeared early. And he poured his heart and soul out to her and when he looked up she was staring out the window, tears streaming down her cheek, watching as the rain began to fall. She kissed him and asked him to never talk to her again because she couldn't stand it. He knew she would get over it with time, but time never came.

At her funeral he cried more then anyone. No one said anything to him, but he knew they were all thinking about him, about how he cried like a baby. What they didn't know was that she had wrote him the morning of her death, saying how she was leaving her husband for him, that they would be together, that she couldn't live without him. How was he suppose to live without her?

He would stand over her grave in the rain, breathing slowly. He would stare at her for hours, and then he would lay down on top her grave, his face in the wet earth, trying to be close to the body he would never see again. He would be covered in dirt when he would come home, and sometimes he would worry some of the women he knew, but he wouldn't say anything, only stare out the window and hum to himself, gently, slowly, almost as if it was horror song...

Rain... rain... go a-way...