It had been days since she had seen the sky this dark. The hustling wind was a soothe for the ears. Months of collected summer dust had finally found freedom from their leafy confines and created a play of caccophony outside the pane.
Nature seemed the silent speaker to her sole audience – as silent as her. Not being able to speak out her thoughts had always made her nauseous. Not a day had she regretted not being able use her power of speech. The ones who could speak out had seemed magically gifted before her silence.
She had taught herself to play conversations in her head before vomiting them out, but had always gulped down the sense of nausea even before it dared to make its way up. That day even after waiting for hours for his ’10 minutes’, she couldn’t make it. All her will to cry out at him, yell at his disposure and break through everything that tangled her to the life she did not care about seemed to sublime in thin air. Laying silently with eyes closed was her weapon – it spared the agony of a talk. It was her way of expressing her unwill, but it always went unnoticed.
“Why can’t I?,” was all she had in store when she had noone to hear. Resolutions had washed down like the winter snow to acceptance. There was a time when it used to strike her heart like an axe on a tree, which leaves no blood but sucks out the life out of it but repeatance had made her accustomed to it. A cold blooded ruin of a Renaissance of adulteration was all that occupied the left of her breast. And was it only her fault? She could never will herself strong enough to speak out.
The clouds had taken shape. It was hovering over the skies, threatening a willful calastrophy. The world awaited its quench. It marked change. It marked metamorphosis. Not the kind of change that would wash down the piles of her scribbled thoughts that lay untouched within the security of her dressing drawer, but of the one of perception, of feelings, of courage that she had been unable to foster so long.
Finally it poured, not in drops, but all at once – till the last of the whirling dust was turned to mud. It was fun for them perhaps, or so the world thought. But what the world had failed to see was the lady behind the open window, her face adored with droplets, the wind caressing her unnoticed scars, and for the briefest of moments she finding solace in this welcomed intrusion.