How to Stop the Rain

The rain went crash against the window. Crash. Crash. Crash against the window. Not the pitter patter of the morning or the thud of the afternoon. Thud. Thud. Thud of the afternoon. The wooden bed was hard and the hardwood floor was splintered and the splintered table smelt of damp and rotting wood. The metal bowl went clink. Clink. Clink went the metal bowl as the metal pipe dripped water into it. Drip, drop. Drip, drop. Clink. Clink.

The little black book lay on the ground. Unmoving. Staring at the ceiling saying nothing. Doing nothing and spilling no secrets. Spilling no blood. Next to the pool of blood. Left of the vomit. Close enough to the door to escape. The lock laughed. Pitter patter. Thud. Crash. Clink went the rain. All day and all night.

The man in the bed writhed, staring at the ceiling. Muttering to himself. Saying everything, spilling everything, spilling all the secrets and spilling all his blood. The gash below his kneecap wept. Jon had hit him with a spade. He lay on crimson sheets, not true crimson but stained white. Permeated by the smell of urine and vomit. Too far from the door to even contemplate escape.

The man wailed. Then wailed, once more. Too low beneath the crash. Crash. Crash of the rain. Not too low for the prisoner next door to bang against the wall in anger. An anger to rival the rain.

*

Seven days the rain had fallen. Seven days since his profit had arrived. The seven days John asked for. To soften the ground of land always dry, in a place always dry, where the air was always dry and no one or thing could breathe. The desk his little black book should be laying on, his bible of sinners and their sins, was empty.

The deer head on the wall stared out at the rain. Told him what he knew. The profit had taken the book. A problem. The profit was the bringer of the rain, his saviour. But, a sinner nonetheless. The deer head laughed at him. For his naivety, his blind faith and trust in the subservience of the profit. When he'd had to break his knee cap to stop him escaping in the first place.

John sighed. In a far field the women were digging their holes. With spades and worn out boots. As the rain played a symphony on the ground. The air was cold. It was clean. He could breathe.

*

The little black book lay still on the ground. When the man had finished his writhing and his wailing and crying and bleeding. When the prisoner next door had bang, bang, banged on the wall in anger. He had not made it past the first seven pages. His name the seventh. The angry prisoner next door the eighth. The book did nothing and the rain continued falling and the man wondered if this was hell.

*

The newest prisoner was a problem. Now the prophet was too. And the women digging the holes were too slow. He sighed. The rain stuttered. The deer head laughed.

*

The man pushed himself off the hard bed onto the hardwood floor and dragged himself to the little black book. Pitter, patter. Clink. Clink. Scrape. Scratch went his leg on the ground as it lay limp behind him. The wound oozed and a line of blood stained the floor. He grit his teeth and ground his jaw. The rain went crash. Crash. Crash went the rain.

The book didn't move. Stared at the ceiling. Then when he placed his weight on the floorboard, it twitched. The little black book spasmed. He leant forward again. The book twitched. He pushed it out the way. It skidded a short distance. Stopped before the door and stared up at the lock. The lock laughed mockingly.

He grabbed at the edge of the floor board with scratched hands and chewed up fingernails. Caked with dried blood and dirt and faeces. He pulled. Pulled. Pulled until he heard a creek.

Creek. Pitter, patter. Clink. Clink. Clink. Creek went the floorboard as he pulled and pulled. His muscles, wasting away, strained uncomfortably. He grit his teeth harder and his jaw gave a painful click.

*

John opened his desk draw. In it lay his gun. He picked it up, stared at it, aimed it at the deer head. The deer head stopped laughing.

*

The floorboard was beginning to lift. It was creaking. Straining. His arms were straining. His leg was bleeding. Then it came up, quite suddenly, and the man was flung back. He hit his head against the ground and let out a gargled scream. There was a loud bang. The man flinched. Then a thud. The man flinched once again. He dragged himself towards the window. Trailing blood and groaning. Outside the rain was falling, so hard and heavy it could bruise. In the far field the women lay dead on the ground. There was movement next door. A blood curdling cry. Another bang. Silence.

The man paused.

Then dragged himself across the room, back to the hole in the ground. Drag, scratch. Pitter, patter. Clink. Clink. Crash, crash, crash went the world around him.

The man stopped before the hole. He leaned over to look inside. His arms struggled to hold his weight. His leg had lost its feeling. His head was becoming foggy.

Inside the hole was a bag.

The man reached into the hole. He opened the bag. Inside lay stacks of money. Crisp bills. The rain stopped. The man froze. The lock whispered it was sorry and then open.

*

John looked into the room. There was blood staining his clothes. The little black book lay before him. He kicked it into the hallway. The hardwood floor groaned. The metal pipe was silent. The prophet was whimpering. Shivering. Wrecked.

John raised his gun.