The Terror of Rain

A dramatic tale, and then the truth.

Rain, rain
Go away
Come back
Another day

The rain drops were crashing into the ground, slicing through the air with enough force to shatter the earth.

Constantly.

Unceasingly.

Sheila folded the clean, red, cardboard paper into itself. Her foreground crinkled with concentration.
A smile broke out on her face, as she held up the red origami boat, no larger than her small hands.
Within moments, she was running out of her house to the small, usually dry, creek beside her house, apathetic to the steady raindrops which slowly clung to her.
Gently, she lowered the paper boat into the water which flowed through the creek. A small push, and then her ship had set sail.
‘She loved rain’, she decided. ‘She loved her creek.’
‘Darkness. She couldn’t breathe. She opened her mouth, gasping for air but water rushed in. Just like that, it stole the air from her lungs.
She was choking.
She opened her eyes in confusion. She was in her own house, but everything, was submerged in water. She clawed upwards, trying to grasp for air but her palms helplessly banged against the roof. The water grasped her limbs like the outstretched branches of a tree, making them feel heavy.
A silent scream escaped her mouth.’
Metaphorical representation of a nightmare

“Whoah.” Sheila woke up, gasping. She blinked in confusion. She was in her own home. She sighed in relief.

The sound of the rain had become a constant rhythm, only increasing like the lead up to the climax of a song. She stood up from the couch on which she had fallen asleep, and looked out of her window.

Unlike its usual withered state, her creek was abundant with overflowing water, lacking the serenity that she had seen in her childhood. The current flowed with a new ferocity as the rain continued to pour, feeding its hunger.

Sheila had petitioned the Liverpool Council several times, explaining that the creek posed an issue for the residents of the area. Clearly, not much had been done. The streets were already filling with water, the drains unable to take in any more water. It had been raining constantly for three days. ‘It’ll stop soon,’ Sheila assured herself.

Her dream flashed through her mind. She shook her head.

The house was precious to her. It was all that she had left. She had lived in solitude after the passing of her family.

Her mother’s laughter was embedded into the walls. The spot on the couch, in which only her father sat. The garden that her parents slaved to create. The second-hand mahogany dining table with a scratched leg.

Every precious memory was imprinted into every corner of the house.

The creek, would not claim it.

* * *

Distressed yells woke Sheila up at 2:47AM in the morning.

She awoke, panicked at the faint sound of several loud voices. Hurriedly, she reached for the glasses on her bedside, pushing back the covers to slip out of bed.

Her foot touched the water before it touched the floor.

She stared below in shock as she looked at the water which covered her bedroom floor, almost ankle deep. Cold and playful, it pushed against her ankles, mocking her to move.
 
 
 The creek, had claimed it.

* * *

A parallel to the Prestons creek after rainfall

Swallowing the lump in her throat, she made her way through the water, and headed out of the door.

Packs of families were gathered outside; a mass of confusion and distress. The NSW SES had arrived and they were ushering people. Confused and sleepy children cried; parents made furious phone calls. The street was becoming louder by the second but Sheila could only stand and watch in despair. It was all filled with water.

Ironically, the rain had ceased.

It seemed almost like it had only wanted to destroy her before it ended. She stood there, holding back tears as she shivered in the darkness with wet feet and a broken heart.

She clenched her jaw, refusing to cry, but the realisation echoed within her. She had lost everything.

The wall etched with the growth of her height. Her mom had etched it secretly, without telling her perfectionist dad who would never have allowed imprints on the wall.
The unique checkered floorboard that her dad has insisted incessantly on selecting for the almost empty living room. He would challenge her to chess almost every day.
Her mother’s art room, filled with paintings that Sheila couldn’t bear to look at; all covered with white sheets. It still smelled of her mother though; a mixture of jasmine and paints and the unique scent of canvas. In the loneliest of her days, she would step inside and breathe deeply for comfort.

With a sob that she muffled with her fist, a tear trickled down her cheek.

Again, it rained.

The destructive power of the creek
When the rain falls continuously for a few days, the empty creek beside my house fills up.
Another day, and the current is moving with confidence.
Another day, and the creek is spilling out onto the road.
The next day, the water has reached my driveway.
I live on an incline but I am afraid.
Another day, and the water has inched up my driveway, towards my back tires of my car.
Another day, and I am more worried.
The rain stops.
The next day, the water decreases.
Another day, and it decreases more.
Another day, the water has almost disappeared.
In a week, the creek is as dry as it once was.
I petition the Council, but it’s like nothing has happened.
But again, it rained.
One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.