The Storm

It’s a Friday night, and I’m home alone sitting at my father's large maple wood desk. Rain is beating angrily against the double windows, and thunder rumbles overhead, making the house tremble. That’s not really what I hear though as my social media pings like a gong in my ears, but I sit frozen, staring at the last text from Jake. It reads: “You’re a disgusting FREAK! “girlfriend” what a joke!!!!! Just kill yourself already!!!!!!!!” He’s right, I think to myself while rubbing my thumb against the cool rigid steel. I exhale deeply with resolve, sit up straight, and press the muzzle against my temple. Unexpectedly the doorbell rings and I jump with shock, sending adrenaline rushing through my veins. I quickly stash the gun back into its drawer, but why? My parents don’t ring their own doorbell. It rings again, and I tell myself to just sit quietly for a moment and surely they’ll go away. It rings a third time and I start to get irritated. Who keeps ringing a doorbell to a house that’s pitch-black inside? I stand up abruptly, pushing the chair out from under me so I can go take a peek at this mystery person. Mystery person indeed, I’ve never seen him before. He’s probably in his thirties, average height, slender build, coconut brown skin with coal-black hair that’s cut to the skin's surface. He rings the bell a fourth time causing me to jump once again. What is this guy's problem!? I think to myself. He can’t know I’m here, right? Maybe he wants to break in, and I’ll be collateral damage if he finds me? Then maybe I should just let him in, save me the trouble of doing it myself, I postulate while finding myself swinging the door open with outrage. “Well!?” I shout in his face. He looks at me with kind brown eyes and says, “I was hoping I could ride out this storm with you.” I flick on the light switch as he casually walks past me into the living room. He stops at the stone fireplace and takes note of some old photographs on the mantle. “Competition swimming. Not a bad metaphor for life, don’t you think?” he says as he slowly turns to look at me. What is this guy on I wonder? Barging in here and then wanting to discuss the meaning of life. I wrinkle my forehead with disdain, but he turns back to the pictures while answering his own question. “By outward appearances, one must stay in their own lane and navigate the waters alone. Now if we were to look at the whole picture, we’d see you didn’t learn to navigate on your own, and although many were there against you, you never entered that water without someone in your corner.” A chill runs down my spine. He knows me. How? I’ve never seen him before, and with my long bleach blonde hair and hourglass figure, I no longer bear any resemblance to that dark-haired boy in those pictures. My mind gives me a reasonable explanation, Jake! Jake must have sent him here to humiliate me or better yet, beat me to death. I close my eyes with acceptance and whisper under my breath, “I’m done with this race anyway.” “Good, because the race is already finished. Don’t you see? You’re part of the symphony. Every moment, every note, that’s what you need to focus on,” he says cheerfully. I’m confused, but find myself a little irritated that he thinks I need a life lesson instead of that beating. I blurt out, “Well, I HATE this moment!” Untroubled, he gently replies, “Then tell yourself, notes aren’t held forever. Each builds upon the one before it, which then flawlessly flows into the next. You just have to keep playing.” This is ridiculous. I don’t need his advice, and even if he was right, then I’m sick of the life I’ve been given. In defiance to his suggestion, I say, “I’m tired of it all. I’d rather it just be over.” “No, you don’t,” he retorts. “You want what is to be replaced with what if. There is no what if that will have value without more high and low notes. Keep playing, but step back and see the bigger picture. Witness that there are those around you playing in concert with you. You’re not alone.” Before I can speak, the doorbell rings again, and it’s followed by pounding on the door. I close my mouth with a grimace and turn to walk towards the front door. It’s my best friend, Alice, from college. Imagine a young Audrey Hepburn and that perfectly describes my friend Alice. I open the door to find her breathless, but she somehow manages to talk ninety miles per hour, “Jeeze Christy, why didn’t you answer my calls or texts. I had to drive here in that god awful storm, I’m lucky I made it in one piece. And go figure, I get here and THEN it decides to stop. I just couldn’t wait any longer though, so here I am. I heard about Jake and what he did. You know I’ll always be here for you, right?” Before I answer her, I twist around to look for the stranger, intending to point out to Alice who I’d been occupying my time with. To my bewilderment, the house is pitch black, with no indication that I’d played host to anyone. Tears begin to breach the corner of my eyes as I turn around to Alice. She takes notice and pulls me in for a giant hug and attests, “You’re not alone.”