The Storm

The rain drips from her clothes as she watches the sea churn viciously in fascination. The wind ravages her hair and clothes, attempting to be rid of her – but her feet are rooted stubbornly to the ground, and she continues to watch… always watch…

Her eyes reflect emptiness, dark and misty; her lips parted slightly to show her enthrallment with the mighty storm. Her hair is entangled, flailing intensely in the wind. Rain rolls down her face to replace the tears that never come. But rain is insufficient.

The droplets of rain are her tears. And there are many tears to be shed.

Her arms encircle her small body as the only source of comfort. Her dirtied dress, once of the purest white, flies around her violently. It is now a murky brown.

Still, she gazes down at the cruel waters, splashing and lashing – licking the rocks at the bottom and rising up the cliff threateningly; gazing with an air of indifference, and the rain is the only thing able to reflect her sadness. The sound of her dry sobs is lost in the chaos of the storm.

Lightning strikes, illuminating all. Trees lean in from the gusts of wind, branches thrashing madly. The leaves break off and soar through the air into the tyrant of the sea.

The sky is dark and sad, heavy with her sorrow and regret. Thunder growls, reflecting the spite deep inside of her as well as the sea.

But the droplets of rain are her tears. And they continue to fall.