Categories > Original > Drama
A/N-First original piece. Advice needed. Wrote in 30 mins, being hassled to get off the compy now, so...y'know. Bye.
Rain
I can smell it coming; the slightly metallic scent, the one that lets you know that the clouds are heavy and ready to burst. The scent that lets you know the heavens are full, that they’ve taken enough, and cannot hold on any longer. The scent that burdens you, knowing that while one is shedding their fears and dislikes, you are gaining them.
I pick up the pace, begging my boots to carry me faster. I am scared of the rain. I know what it does. All it does is burden, not help. It falls from the sky, coming down, down, down, but not helping anything. They lie; The most rain can clean is chalk off of a sidewalk, drawn on by screaming children, who no doubt bashed each other in the head with the chalk as they drew. Drew pictures of ponies, cats, hopscotch, themselves and others.
I was one of those kids.
No. I’m not like that. I’m tough, resilient, purple-haired, combat-boot-wearing Kat. Not a soft-hearted mush ball. Nothing gets to me.
The scent reminds me of a memory. It’s just at the tip of consciousness, I can feel it. Just barely. It’s waiting to take that step off the edge, throw into my mind…
Softball. It reminds me of softball. It reminds me of the long nights out on random nights during the week. It reminds me of the way I would go into a game with the sun beating down on my neck as I stood on the field, blinding me, and then ending the game early because it got too dark. It reminds me of the feel of the ball slamming into my glove, the satisfying thwack of leather against leather. It reminds me of the clunky way my cleats would meet the tile floors at Wendy’s, as I would ease myself into a booth because all of the running made my ankles sore. It reminds me of the long rides through the western part of the county, how my dad used to harass the cows grazing in the fields.
No. I don’t play softball. I do drama. I’m tough-talking, creative, artistic, Kat. Softball is for the un-gifted wannabes.
Thunder rumbles in the distance and the scent grows stronger. I almost smile, remembering the time me and the Mad Ones were at a festival for music and it began storming just as we won. We ran to the buses, laughing like mad the entire way, trying to save our beautiful trophy. I do miss the Mad Ones.
No. No, I don’t. I’m silent, serious, loner Kat. Screaming madly and running can be left for the Mad Ones.
My eyes are still downcast as I plod along. Then I feel it. The first drop of rain, right at the top of my head.
Plop. Another. A bead of purple runs down my forehead.
Plop, plop, plop, plop, plop. One after another. Before I know it, I’m standing in sheeting rain. But I’m not running. I’m standing in the middle of the storm, face up. Purple-tinted water pools at my feet, and my hair is slowly returning to its wildly curly, blonde state. I can feel the thick, unhealthy amounts of eyeliner running down my face, along with the concealer, returning my skin to its unnaturally tan state. I can sense the odd stares that I’m getting from the people in cars, but at the moment, I don’t care. Because I am no longer resilient, purple-haired, combat boot-wearing, tough-talking, creative, artistic, silent, serious, loner Kat.
I am Katelyn.
~Rage And Love~
(UsernameGoesHere)
Rain
I can smell it coming; the slightly metallic scent, the one that lets you know that the clouds are heavy and ready to burst. The scent that lets you know the heavens are full, that they’ve taken enough, and cannot hold on any longer. The scent that burdens you, knowing that while one is shedding their fears and dislikes, you are gaining them.
I pick up the pace, begging my boots to carry me faster. I am scared of the rain. I know what it does. All it does is burden, not help. It falls from the sky, coming down, down, down, but not helping anything. They lie; The most rain can clean is chalk off of a sidewalk, drawn on by screaming children, who no doubt bashed each other in the head with the chalk as they drew. Drew pictures of ponies, cats, hopscotch, themselves and others.
I was one of those kids.
No. I’m not like that. I’m tough, resilient, purple-haired, combat-boot-wearing Kat. Not a soft-hearted mush ball. Nothing gets to me.
The scent reminds me of a memory. It’s just at the tip of consciousness, I can feel it. Just barely. It’s waiting to take that step off the edge, throw into my mind…
Softball. It reminds me of softball. It reminds me of the long nights out on random nights during the week. It reminds me of the way I would go into a game with the sun beating down on my neck as I stood on the field, blinding me, and then ending the game early because it got too dark. It reminds me of the feel of the ball slamming into my glove, the satisfying thwack of leather against leather. It reminds me of the clunky way my cleats would meet the tile floors at Wendy’s, as I would ease myself into a booth because all of the running made my ankles sore. It reminds me of the long rides through the western part of the county, how my dad used to harass the cows grazing in the fields.
No. I don’t play softball. I do drama. I’m tough-talking, creative, artistic, Kat. Softball is for the un-gifted wannabes.
Thunder rumbles in the distance and the scent grows stronger. I almost smile, remembering the time me and the Mad Ones were at a festival for music and it began storming just as we won. We ran to the buses, laughing like mad the entire way, trying to save our beautiful trophy. I do miss the Mad Ones.
No. No, I don’t. I’m silent, serious, loner Kat. Screaming madly and running can be left for the Mad Ones.
My eyes are still downcast as I plod along. Then I feel it. The first drop of rain, right at the top of my head.
Plop. Another. A bead of purple runs down my forehead.
Plop, plop, plop, plop, plop. One after another. Before I know it, I’m standing in sheeting rain. But I’m not running. I’m standing in the middle of the storm, face up. Purple-tinted water pools at my feet, and my hair is slowly returning to its wildly curly, blonde state. I can feel the thick, unhealthy amounts of eyeliner running down my face, along with the concealer, returning my skin to its unnaturally tan state. I can sense the odd stares that I’m getting from the people in cars, but at the moment, I don’t care. Because I am no longer resilient, purple-haired, combat boot-wearing, tough-talking, creative, artistic, silent, serious, loner Kat.
I am Katelyn.
~Rage And Love~
(UsernameGoesHere)
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