I Remember the Rain

May 9, 2012
By heyitzscott GOLD, Rochester Hills, Michigan
heyitzscott GOLD, Rochester Hills, Michigan
10 articles 0 photos 0 comments

I remember the rain; the trickled water fell down upon the streets. My weariness led me under oil lamps, suitcase in hand. The sudden wind blew my overcoat in front of me as I passed street corners that gripped the corneas of my eyes. Night took a hold of the air which smelt of smoke from clouded chimneys over rooftops. I moved in front of a white house. To my surprise, the darkness allowed my pupils to gain the knowledge of the house’s hue. I noticed it’s columns that hung down with such width. They stood as trees to support the main frame of this house. It became a good minute or so until I realized the edifice I stood before rested on the dark blue, wet grass in the image of my house. The house I lived in most of my life. Time had its effect on me when I stayed in Boston. Two years passed in a matter of weeks. I rubbed my exhausted eye lids and yawned. My head spun from the time span that made me forget my house. With forward steps, the front door neared to me. At the porch, I almost stepped on a malnourished cat. I noticed the feline in mid-step which prevented my heavy feet to stomp the creature. The cat’s fur took the consistence color of jet that prevented my eyes to make out the figure of the animal. It hissed at me with its green eyes. They burned straight through mine. In an instant, he ran off into the bushes with a loud rustle. I ignored the strange creature and entered my old key into the brass doorknob.
A wave of humidity crashed onto my sore face. Death ran through the walls, and not a single breeze flowed through the halls, unlike the light. Candles shun the dark in almost every room visible. The library, to my left as I entered, made it obvious that no windows let in the chill of the house. I thought that the essence of silence joined in the symphonies of ominous aesthetics, yet John interrupted the silence as he so often did, “You’re here, you little b****rd.” He tried to put fear in me. My solemn visage showed no signs of a flinch from his syllables.
“I had to . . . Mom’s gone, isn’t she?” I mumbled. I couldn’t say it out loud. It stabbed at my heart when I said it; sent shivers down my spine; left tears in my eyes. I could hardly make out his figure from the candle light behind him, which worked in my favor as I did not want to see his drunken face.
“You can just say it! She’s dead!” he yelled. He neared toward me and shoved me down onto the wood floor as I toppled over my suitcase. My hands scraped against a rusted nail. Even in the darkness he saw my blood. The red plasma motivated his anger, and I received another blow to my face. Again, I showed no fear. “C’mon! Give me a reason to hit you!” John screamed. His voice echoed through the house and shook my bones. I crawled away to have a nearby book in John’s reach thrown at my head which I could have easily avoided or shielded with my suitcase. “It’s all your fault! You had to leave, had to go to Boston! You only came back’ cause she’s dead! If she went on living, you wouldn’t have come back home! You would have stayed in Boston! She was always so proud of you, but I know you’re just a piece of s***,” his voice punctured my ears, “I’ll bet you think you’re so high and mighty! A sergeant major!” he spat at me when he finished his rant, yet his drunkenness prevented his projectile saliva from hitting me. I lay on the ground while I looked up at him. A bottle of whiskey stood clenched in his vile grip. His rage left him speechless, so he stormed out of the room, yet the gale still blew and brought fierce bolts of lightning in the front hall. In the kitchen, I could hear him sob uncontrollably.
I didn’t know what to do. Comfort him? No, he would strike me. His inebriation allowed a circuit of ire to pass through his veins. I went into the empty living room, instead. The room’s atmosphere converged with my skin with still and humid air. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up, for I knew death stood somewhere in the room; perhaps behind the velvet curtains that covered the windows. The shadows swathed the darkness of the room and the coffin, placed ever so gently in the heart of the room. I walked over to it. The façade of it seemed smooth. I noticed the silence as it slid into my ears, and out my nostrils that breathed in the smell of formaldehyde.
My head down, I walked out into the hallway where speckled rays of light shone. The warmth of light calmed my nerves. With tranquil breaths, I heard the rapping of tapping drips of water. A breeze flew into the humid home with the scent of fresh rain. I knew that John wanted the windows closed, from the evidence of the milieu. It became clear that the sounds of rain accompanied the resonance of a crow hitting the windowsill. A black plume struck my eye as a peculiar object. While I examined it, and the bird squawked a timbre of awkward cries which led me to believe the foul before me stood as a raven.
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee -- by these angels he hath sent thee respite---respite and nepenthe from thy memories.” It cocked its head, and flew away. I closed the window with one last breath to absorb the cool air outside.
I walked upstairs to my childhood room. I thought about what John had said. He was right in his own ways. I went to bed, with his voice in my head, telling me all of my mistakes, yet I slumbered under skies of raining sorrow.

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"Biography of Edgar Allan Poe." A Short Biography of Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849). Web. 27 Apr. 2012. <http://www.poestories.com/biography.php>.
"John Allan." PoeForward.com. Ed. Brian Aldrich. 2007. Web. 27 Apr. 2012. <http://www.poeforward.com/poe/allan.html>.
"John Allan." Edgar Allan Poe Society of Baltimore. 20 Mar. 2009. Web. 03 May 2012. <http://www.eapoe.org/people/allanj.htm>.

The author's comments:
I wrote this for my creative writing class on E. A. Poe. I took it from his perspective when he left his postion as sergent major in boston in 1829 to come home to his deceased adoptive mother and drunk adoptove father. I am not not sure if John beat Poe, but I wrote this as an exaggerated tale to emphasize his writing technique and how the real world impacted his work. I hope everyone enjoys this as much as I enjoyed writing it.

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