Tears

TEARS

Tears. He remembered them flowing down his face on that day. He didn’t know how he knew, since it was raining. He was out in the rain, the drops touching every part of his body. Maybe because his tears are hot. Maybe he tasted them, and they were salty. It didn’t made a difference to him anymore. He was used to this. He has always been left out in the rain. He was never been able to help. He can hear the cries, but he can never get inside. Always outside, outside in the rain….

Rain. She has come to dread the rain. Rain brings back memories, painful ones, those that she wants to forget. The first time, she was forced to watch. Watch Ben standing outside crying. It was raining, and he was crying outside, locked out by him. The fact that he was raining blows on her didn’t register much in her memories. She only remember seeing her Ben, crying in the rain. She only knew, now, the pattern. How she came to dread the rain. He had always stormed in on rainy days. Only on rainy days, would he come out of his study, lock Ben out of the house, and proceed to handle her roughly, his eyes glazed, breath stinking with alcohol. If she resisted, he would rain blows on her; if she didn’t, there would be cries all the same. Because of her cries, Ben would cry. He would cry amidst the rain, accompanied by thunderclaps….

Thunderclaps. The first thing he could remember of that day was of the thunderclaps. Thunderclaps, so loud, that he almost can’t hear the phone. Then came the news, of course. After the news came…he can’t remember clearly. He can only remember drinking, while crying in anguish, crying in despair over his little brother, his brother he had cherished so much… His brother has left home, left his family, to elope with her. When he first saw her, he knew nothing good can come of it. But his brother didn’t care about objections. Not from his friends, not from his parents, and not from him. He had eloped, then adopted a new name, and went into recluse. He had tracked Roger down, of course. Tracked him down, but didn’t interfere. He saw his brother’s life, and it was happy, though needy. He had consented then, to stop interfering, because he believed Roger was now happy. And he didn’t bother them. Just went on with his business in town, and monitored them once in a while, with an occasional visit, often with money slipped under the table, to make their lives a bit more comfortable.

Then came that day, that fateful day, with the thunderclaps. The day Roger died. He was involved in an accident, on the way to the hospital, where Ben was born, when his car lost control and crashed into a lamp post. A few hours ago Roger had phoned him, told him how happy he was, telling him that the doctor said it would most likely be in these few days, and arranged for him to be the newborn’s godfather. He had sounded so happy. That was the last he had ever heard of Roger. Grief stricken, he had staggered to the household bar, and drank himself to a stupor. The next day he had visited her. It was a boy. The doctors said not to tell her yet, but he noticed she looked panic stricken, and seemed to know why Roger wasn’t there with her. Later that day, she told him.

She told him. She blamed herself for Roger’s death, and so, she told him. The money he had given them on visits was not enough, of course. They were unable to manage financially because she has to stop working due to the pregnancy. They had finally succumbed to the pressure, and went to the loan sharks. She knew, the day before Ben was born; they left a message, a threat. Roger had tried to hide it, tried to reassure her, but she found the note all the same. She entered the hospital with trepidation. And when Roger wasn’t there the next morning, with the doctors putting up strained smiles for her, she knew. The autopsy report came later that day, and the police confirmed foul play. His brother went into a blind rage, and screamed in anguish. The hospital security personnel had to physically restrain him, and sedations were given before he would finally calm down. Two weeks later, he offered to let them live in his mansion. She accepted gratefully, and cooked meals for him, and cleaned up his house; and he in turn funded Ben’s education. But it was just a contract, there was no warmth, and he would only talk to her curtly, or not at all.

For the first two years, it wasn’t so bad, except on rainy days. He would fall into a melancholy mood, and she would flinch from the accusatory glares he leveled at her. As the years went by, conditions grew worse, and then it started. The first time it happened, he shoved Ben roughly out the door, in a drunken rage. Then he descended upon her. She didn’t resist, because she still blames herself. Blames herself for his lost brother, blames herself for Ben’s lost father, and blames herself for her lost husband. She remembers grabbing at the window pane, looking at Ben crying. All she can do now is to lie here, memories flashing through her head. Not memories of her ravage, only memories of Ben crying, crying in the rain, the most vivid ones always complete with thunderclaps…

Thunderclaps. Ringing in his ears, he remembers seeing his mother face sometimes, at the windows on the second floor, her pale face twisted in agony. It would always be Uncle Alfred who lets him in later, opens the door and leaves it open, and then turn back into the house, walking away curtly. He grew up in this, and when offered a chance to study away from the country, refused, for fear of leaving his mother alone, alone in the louse with Uncle Alfred. Until today, another rainy day, with thunder. Uncle Alfred had tried to lock him out again, but this time, he’d resisted. He is no longer a child now, a grown man, and he had shoved his uncle roughly. They had struggled, and Uncle Alfred had managed to push him down. By now, he saw uncle Alfred had a deranged gleam in his eyes. Ben had picked himself up quickly, and ran after him, only to see the gun. The gun, in Uncle Alfred’s hands, pointing at his mother. He hadn’t been able to stop him. A shot rang out, and hit his mother’s left breast. She slumped over, and a mad rage filled him. He now remembers, through a red haze, grabbing the gun from the cackling uncle, squeezing the trigger several times, and blood on the floor everywhere. The gun still in his hands, he staggered out into the rain, his head swimming in a sea of confusion, and he looked up. A shock ran through him, as he saw her pale face staring back at him, through the window. No! She is dead! Killed by his uncle! That’s why he’d… that’s why he… If she wasn’t hurt, then he wouldn’t…. He mumbled incoherently. Then, a wild thought, at first just a wild impulse, then turning into a coherent choice, finally coming to a concrete conclusion. His hands moved up, though he didn’t notice them. He can only focus on his mother’s face, her pale face, staring back at him, a face contorted with grief, and agony. How many times has it been now? Him standing outside, looking up, in the rain….

Rain. She can hear it as she clawed herself up the window pane weakly. She saw her Ben again, her grown son, staggering out with the gun. He looked up, and for a moment, she saw her him as a little boy again, crying, looking up. The illusion was shattered, when he slowly lifted the gun, with the muzzle finally resting on his temple. All the while he looked at her with haunted eyes. She wanted to shout, wanted to scream, but she was too weak. He pulled the trigger. She didn’t hear the shot, because thunder chose that moment to strike. Everything was dimming. The last thing she noticed before everything went dark was not the pain, nor the blood gushing out. Not Alfred’s body beside her, not Ben’s slumped form in her full view. The last thing she noticed were moisture, flowing down her face.

Tears.