Disclaimer: Don't own a thing. Isn't it sad?

Author's Note: I haven't written anything for a really long time, and I'm ashamed of myself. I don't even have an excuse to explain myself, so here it is: I was just being lazy. I'm sorry, and I will try to update more regularly.

IMPORTANT: Like most things I've written recently, this is fairly confusing and plotless.

ALSO: There's a quote in here from "V For Vendetta". :D Whoever finds it first gets a mystery prize!

The first thing he notices is the rain.

It tastes of sorrow and salt, and when it slides against his tongue, it tingles.

Oh, how he has missed the rain.

He doesn't remember the last time he's seen the rain. Real rain (sparkles and glitter and shattered diamonds), not the rain from the city(acid and wet sulfur) which burned and ate away at his skin, his thoughts, his resolve.

I've missed this.

In time, he drifts asleep.

Vaguely, he remembers someone saying, "God is in the rain. It's when he washes away all our problems."

He also remembers laughing openly in their face.

"God?" he'd said, spitting venom onto the pavement. "God isn't in the rain. He's not in this goddamn city. He's not anywhere."

They'd laughed.

"You'll see," she'd said softly, stroking what he'd handed her; blue light intermingled with the porcelain of her fingers. "One day, you'll see. Like I did." she laughed then, and the sound of her voice was like broken bells, sweet and sad in the air.

"Yeah right." he snorted. "You wouldn't need me if you believed half that bullshit."

Splick. Splack.

Water drips from his face; his eyes blink open.

Obviously, this clean air is getting to him. In his line of business, it was a death wish to fall asleep in the open. Which is exactly what he'd done.

"Shit," he swears, but there's no strength behind it.

It's been years since he's left the city. Looking back, he wonders briefly why it took him so long to get away, but immediately, he knows why. Gravestealing never ended; there was always a line of new customers, a new line of addicts, and always a shortage of Z. He was always hustling for that last bit of glow, those last few creds, those bits of bread that never even got close to filling his stomach.

There's a crash, then a snap; the rain is pouring again, wringing crystals from its underbelly.

They are washing over him, gems of cleansing.

He's not religious.

He's not even optimistic.

But as he feels that rain, that liquid forgiveness of untold amounts of sin, he smiles.

"Thanks, Big G," he chuckles softly. "Thanks for the rain."

When he returns to the city (closed, filthy, unforgiving) and falls into his fabulous, fabulous bed of garbage bags and rotten food, he feels enlightened.

And when he falls asleep that night, he dreams of wide, open spaces and diamonds in the sky.