Downpour

I was shot six times -- three times in the chest, once in my right arm, and twice in my right leg. I couldn't tell you who killed me or why, I just know that this barn, slumped in the same position day after day is where I spend my eternity. I don't know if I sleep at all. Not once did I try to keep track of the time. I couldn't tell you the year, let alone the day or hour it is. I don't know what the outside world is like anymore. I only know this rusted red remnant from when I was alive.

I do know that people occasionally stop by the barn, though. I don't know if it's an old man on a life changing journey starting a fire next to my bones to keep him company in the lengthy loneliness of night, or if it's a mother trying to keep her and her four children warm from the crushing cold of winter's wrathful winds.

Whenever I look at where somebody's face should be I see nothing. It looks almost like there's a constant fuzz you'd see on a television after it's lost its signal. I try to build their faces, but I don't remember where the parts go. I see their eyes near the edge of their head, a nose below one and a mouth below another. The next face I look at is different. This time, their nose is right in the center of their face, below their mouth but above their eyes. There's an ear on the forehead, but only one. I don't know which way is right.

I can't speak to these travelers either, but it's not for lack of trying. I want to ask them about the world outside. I want to know if the precious purple flower still grows taller than my window would let me see. I want to know if mom still bakes her bubbly brown bacon macaroni and cheese that was always cooked three minutes too long. Sometimes I think I can smell it, but I don't know if the dead can really smell. I want to ask if cars are hovering the way we always thought they would. I want to know if my brothers and sisters achieved their dreams or not. Susan always wanted to be a chef, naming her restaurant "Lucille's Kitchen", after our mother. I told her I'd visit someday.

What I really want to ask the travelers is about who they are -- why they're staying in my barn. I want to know where the eyes and ears and mouth and nose belong on their face. Is this mother of four really trying to reap the warmth of a fire, or is she on the run from some heinous crime she coldly committed and this is the first place she found to conceal herself from the ensuing search? Is this old man really on a life changing journey, or is he really the murder-mother camouflaging herself as somebody else to venture into the world again? I let my mind wander too much.

But, it's not like I don't have the time.

You don't lose any part of who you were when you die, that I'm for sure on. I was always curious about people and the world they lived in before I was shot six times -- three times in the chest, once in my right arm, and twice in my right leg. And the one -- and I mean one -- nice thing about all of this is I can still hear. I've grown accustomed to long periods of serene silence before seeing another soul enter through those barn doors. And I know for sure that the mother of four is keeping her children out of the sinister snow. She said so.

I could hear her silent cries while the kids were sleeping, not knowing if the littlest of the four was lost to winter's welcoming caress of death or not. We would both find out once the stumbling storm passed in the morning. And thankfully, he was with us still. But, eventually, they left, and I was alone again. I wish I could count the days so I knew for how long this time. I wish I knew where they went off to and why they stopped here.

I tell myself she's looking for medicine to save her sick daughter, and that this hell was a pitstop on the way to a new life. I tell myself they'll outgrow their mother, following in the footsteps of my siblings and achieving whatever their dreams may be. Maybe one of them still wants to be an astronaut after four years old. Maybe the other wishes to become an archeologist, dusting off the barren bones he uncovers deep beneath the hardened desert soil. But, now they're gone, and I'm running out of things to tell myself about them.

I wish I knew how long it had been since the mother and her four children stopped at the barn. I don't know if it's been days or weeks or months or years. Decades possibly. I don't know what season it is outside -- are the leaves finally floating freely to become crisp and crunchable by the time they land? Is dad still spending several hours raking a pile of those beautiful brown, ruby red, and yellow-bellied leaves for us to enjoy for two whole minutes? Is the snow still painting the world with her crooked idea of beauty? Burying deep the hills and doors and trees with a bulging blanket of winter's white? Or has spring finally arrived, bringing with her my painstakingly precious purple flower? Is it finally the season of rain that falls in detailed dances of delicacy to leave us soaked in renewal? God, how I miss the rain.

I can still remember the first time I listened to the rageful rain slamming against the windows of the cupola. How gorgeous it sounded, as if fairies were playing harmonious harps and singing pitch perfectly. I remember feeling accompanied by the bellowing booms of the thunder mixed with the elegant patter of the rain soulfully slipping down the side of the barn. I didn't feel alone anymore.

But, after a while, I stopped being able to describe the beauty of rainfall. It would last for minutes, sometimes hours -- I think, but eventually it stopped, and I was alone again. And I began to want more.

I wanted to see the rain. I always thought that each drop contained a microscopic ocean filled with sharks and jellyfish and whales and stingrays and eels unique to rain, puddling the mud surrounding the barn to build a larger ocean. I wanted to see the aftermath of a downpour that drained the world of any dourness it had before rain began to flow from the sky. But I can't. So I wait for however long it takes until the next rainfall. And when that happens, I take in every drop -- every thundercrack, until it disappears again.

I wanted to feel the sharpness of the violent rain, smacking my skin like a million miniature stones. I didn't care if it broke my bones or hurt me, I just wanted to feel what rain feels like when it's dropping from the sky relentlessly. I wanted to feel what rain feels like when it's falling with purpose and rhythm, the smacks feeling more like cushions that ricochet off your body and fall to the Earth with elegance. But I would never be able to, because I was shot six times -- three times in my chest, once in my right arm, and twice in my right leg -- in this goddamn barn. And I can't move.

There's another traveler here. I don't know who it is. Maybe the mother was unsuccessful in her attempt to cure her sick daughter. Or maybe the old man has completed his fulfilling journey and is on his way back to a cramped apartment filled with meaningless trinkets of his past before finding the meaning of life. Or maybe it's somebody new. Maybe it's a teenager who is waiting here for his friends so they can drink in private and accidentally set the barn ablaze. That would be better than living in this hell, unable to feel what once used to bring me immeasurable amounts of joy.

Suddenly, though, I was floating. It felt like I had a second chance to swim towards the luscious light, but there was no light in sight. I tried to turn and see what was happening but it was no luck.

Until the traveler faced me toward them. I still couldn't see their face, damnit. I can't see where their ears belong or their mouth or eyes or nose. I can't see the color of their skin or if there's curls in their hair. I couldn't see anything.

But, I could hear. And I could feel.

And I could hear the rain penetrating the damp ground beneath me now. But it wasn't just penetrating the ground beneath me -- it was hitting me. It was sharp and exciting and elegant and monumentous. I could finally feel the downpour that would wash away the dullness of the world. I know, from what I remember the rain came with grey and gloom and sadness. But not for me.

There was always beauty in the groaning grey skies. There was something exciting about sitting by my windowsill, head resting wide-eyed against the chilled glass, watching my precious purple flower grow.