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April Showers Drown May Flowers
x Rainfall Complexity x

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He remembered still, standing in the storm, taking in the rain-washed, dreary day folded in around him. After all, he could never forget her, even if in his dreams he tried, even when he fought with all of his heart. No, it was because of her that he had learned about love, that he had fallen into love, that he now never wanted to love again.

So he would always remember her.

He’d met her on a regular day, one that spanned not too far off in the past, when the rain was falling and he was quite lost. It was the meadow that he then stumbled into, tripping out of the woods while only wanting directions for the main road he just couldn’t seem to find, that led him to her, too, to a girl with a voice soft as a summer’s breeze as she pointed out that the road was just ahead, right beyond the trees, and he couldn’t miss it. And he was entranced by her immediately, though he doubted that he let himself show it, so quickly did he leave her standing there; and he wanted to meet her again, so, to accomplish such, he took that worn pathway which he’d found every day, no matter the inconvenience it granted him, and stumbled back into the meadow, always looking for her.

Always she was there when he came searching, too, as if she lived there, among the trees and beneath the sky, a mythological nymph who reflected the beauty of nature in her physical form, gentle as a sighing breeze, powerful as the sunlight. After all, she liked the meadow, she said once. It convinced her that the world could still be a serene and wonderful place, if it could produce such magical things. And he came to know that she appreciated much of nature, when he would sit in her presence silently and lounge beneath the sun on the grass, listening to her speak in that low, summer-sweet voice of hers as she plucked strands of weeds from the ground, turning them over in her hands until she let the wind carry them away.

She was sensitive and kind and fragile, her feelings worn blatantly on her plain, white sleeves, her eyes expressive and her heart forever open. Once he caught her pitying some unimportant little trifle, a dead mouse that was tangled in the grass some ways from where she knelt. And he found it almost stupid, truly, that she would waste her feelings on a thing that was so small, so expendable. It seemed pointless.

But what he also found stupid, found pointless, was the fact that he could be so jealous, as she’d yet to extend such feelings his way. With him she was more distant, placing barriers around her heart that he couldn’t understand, and only her friendship was his to have, nothing more.

He never had the courage to ask her for reasons, though. He just took it as it was, content to lie by her side beneath the midday sun, warmth on his face and grass at his back as he watched her twirl flowers between her fingers, freckles ever dusting her cheeks, hazel eyes warm as they watched the distance.

When the sun shined and the atmosphere was sharp and flawless, she glowed, contented smile on her lips and frame relaxed, every movement of her body gentle and calming. Therefore, it was a long while before he could see just how transparent her act was, how unhappy those eyes seemed against the dark color of her hair, how sad that smile truly was on her lips. When he joined her in the rain on certain days, settling himself next to her and watching her watch the trees, the pain she harbored so deeply struck his attention, and he wondered how he could ever miss those tears, that trembling, that hatred.

Despite her self-erected barriers, she never pushed him away, because she was alone; and she loved nature and reveled in its beauty with such breathless amazement, because every fiber of her being loathed humanity. She never spoke of this to him, because she hardly uttered her thoughts with that breezing voice of hers, but he could see it in her eyes that bore the burdens of wrongdoings, that reflected nature and stormed like the harsh clouds swirling above. She had been hurt too many times, and so her faith was no longer existent. It was why she hid behind flowers and foliage, and it was why she shied from him.

Inside she was perished, the light of life and love extinguished, her eyes only mirrors to reflect the warmth and brightness of a sunny day.

But he tried, Lord knows he did, to make her happy. He, who’d never believed in feelings and sentimentality and, least of all, love, extended his feelings haphazardly, fumbling to take her hand, awkwardly embracing her close. She’d laugh at his actions, too, teasing and responding that he was acting like a fool, but he could hear the apology ever in her tone, and he realized that she knew what he was trying to do and was telling him that it just wouldn’t work.

In no words she was conveying how broken she really was, a wilted rose with bleeding thorns, and there was nothing beautiful about her, nothing to love left. But he disagreed, insistently, forever disagreed, and he refused to leave her side no matter how she pushed him away.

Maybe that was the mistake.

She seemed grateful with his presence. She seemed happy with the pointless little gifts and childish confessions written stiffly and hurriedly on postcards of nature he’d found stowed somewhere, stained with shoe polish and aged some but otherwise in good condition. And she would allow herself to lean against his chest, where she’d fall into a peaceful slumber as the birdcalls lulled her to sleep. But still he could see that she was never truly healed, never truly better, and that, though he tried, he was accomplishing nothing. After all, one could only truly help oneself, he’d heard before, so who was he to alleviate her sadness?

He was no one at all.

It hurt still to realize this, back in the present, standing before her grave. She was young, beautiful, and pure, so she should’ve been happy, should’ve been given everything. But life was hardly fair, and so she’d been chronically depressed, and he hadn’t been able to save her, when she left his side forever one fateful day.

One couldn’t save the dead, after all.

Kneeling before the gravestone now, hardly feeling the rain as it froze the back of his neck and trailed down his back and along his jacket, he laid the gift in his hands down, a bouquet of flowers with roses especially among them. And as he cried in the rainfall, shielding his hurt in betrayal amidst the gray, just as she’d taught him, he hoped sincerely that immortality gave her happiness, because Kay deserved to experience the good at least once.

Perhaps death was the savior she’d needed.

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