It was still daylight when the storm woke him, the musty scent of spring rains creeping through the moulding cracks in the crumbling walls of his garret apartment. The smell smothered him, filling his lungs with its gray cotton thickness. He choked on it, took a pinch of snuff, lit a candle—the warm, wet air retreated, hovering in the corners until the snuff wore off, until the candle fizzled and died.
When he heard the thunder approaching, he thought wildly to cover the windows and rushed to the faint light from the corner. There was no window in the garret; the light emanated from a jagged hole in the rotted roof.
It could get in.
Panic gripped at his throat, clogging his lungs. He tore the cloak from his shoulders and stuffed it into the hole, suffocating the dim light, crushing it into blackness. He strained his eyes against the room, but not even murky shadows separated themselves from the darkness. He smiled.
Now the thunder was closer, and he held his breath, waiting for the inevitable loathsome light to come, sizzling, burning, fire in his limbs, lungs—face. He remembered the taste of metal, the smell of scorched flesh, and the feel of something dripping over his cheeks,
It was then that the rain, soaking his cloak, had made it too weighty for the sagging roof; it fell, drenched, heavy, trapping him as would a net. Frantic, he clawed it away from his face, hurling it into the corner.
The rain poured through the hole, and he flattened himself against the wall as the growing puddle inched toward him.
Lightning split the sky, and for a brief instant he saw his own screaming face reflected in the small window. Burnt, melted, reddish chunks of skull, muscle, exposed. Rivulets of melted skin had dried upon his forehead as though he were a half-used candle, drips of wax cooled mid-descent.
The light had faded instantly, but the face would never be gone. He pulled the cloak over his head and waited for the storm to end.
