Easy (Part 3)

But when I look to the top of the snow drift to where I saw the movement, I see only a single silouhette in the bright sunlight which beams from behind it. A person stands there at the crest, tall and regal. Staring down at me I can see only that it is human and female and alone. It is a single silhouette bathed in golden rays and for the briefest moment I am filled with something I long ago forgot the word for.

“Agatha?”

And before I even know what I've done the rope is lying in the snow and my feet are leaving ragged craters in the soft white ground as I run toward the top of the bank, my boots sinking in down to my knees. Fast as I can I am there but as I crest the top she is gone and I am blinded. There is only the golden glow of the harsh sun in this thin air and I can see nothing for a moment but even then, when it finally comes together, there is only a shape running away from me in the snow. Toward the horizon and the sun.

She is beautiful even from here and I know that she is Agatha, her skin as pale and clear as the white of the fresh snow and her body as fit and lean as one who has been forced to live in this hellish waste for years. She is running and as she does her blonde hair waves out behind her and shimmers in the light. My own footsteps fall through the snow like a wounded horse in relation and she quickly moves away as I slow, winded and hurting as her silhouette is gone from view.

It's then that I realize, looking down at my own feet burried in the white that there are no foot prints save my own. As closely as I followed her path it is only my own steps I see and none leading away. None leading toward her or toward anyone.

Since I've no way to keep time I have no way of knowing how much time has passed or how long I've been running. As I begin to follow my steps back toward the fuel it begins to snow once more and I become afraid. Without my own steps to follow and if the weather should turn worse I could die here, nearly within sight of the station. Killed by my own hopes and imagination.

But I do find my way back and the cart is still there, undisturbed. The fuel is safe, for now, and I begin the slow process again of pulling it to a new hiding spot, this time behind a rock out cropping slightly closer to the station. The entire time, how ever long it may be, I force the thought of her from my mind. Force the idea of what it might mean from my mind.

The days are long here but they do not last forever and if I am to survive another night, if I am to live to dream again, I must hide the fuel once more and I must refill the generators. I must make sure they are secure and running so that tonight, when the cloud cover is right to bounce the radio waves off of, I can contact her again. It is miracle enough that I can contact her at all with what little power the set has. It would not do to miss any opportunity.

And I will not tell Agatha tonight of what happened. It would not do to worry her. She has enough on her mind and I know in my heart that I am as much the only hope she has as she is mine.

I only hope that she is also well. Lately she has been sounding more and more bleak and I worry for her sanity. It is all too easy to lose these days.

Easy (Part 2)

The outside world is all but completely white and there's only a slight hint of blue in the sky to tell me where the earth meets the horizon. I can’t help but look out at the landscape and see an empty old house with white sheets tossed over all of the furniture to protect them from dust. But it’s pointless really; the sheets are there to stay, the house will never be a home again.

I venture out during the day out of habit mostly. Sight is just as difficult in the white of day light as in the the near black of darkness. Though it is safer in the day, it is only a bit. Markers I left in the snow, sparse breadcrumbs to ensure I didn’t lose myself in the tundra, are barely visible now. New snow white sheets draped over the old furniture hide them.

I had tried to hide the cache in a way that would be too difficult for others to find, but not so difficult as to where I would not be able to find it myself. The first marker meant to travel west for a hundred paces. The second was east for fifty. The third was west again, for twenty-five. The fourth marker in the in the snow was the location, but a fifth and six marker were placed in the distance to lead anyone who might have attempted to follow the trail astray.

As I dig, her words echo in my head. She’s right, it is not easy. I’ve reached the point where I can’t remember how many days I’ve been here. I kept time for a while with my watch, but the battery eventually died. Honestly I've no idea how long it was dead before I noticed. After I did though, I kept with the clock at the station, but as I began to run lower on fuel, I killed all operations unnecessary to survival. And after that, I attempted to keep time with the passing of the sun. It moves slower here, the days and nights are hours longer than I’m accustomed to. I did the math to count the hours for a while, but eventually it grew tiresome and I deemed it pointless and ceased.
Actually, everything seemed pointless, after a time. Survival is our base instinct, our one true purpose, some would say. However, I found, the more I was forced to struggle, to persist, to revert to the base instincts of survival, the less I truly wanted to. I determined that was what separates us from animals. They seek simply to survive. We wish to live.

Then I found her voice, the voice that saved my life.

I play out different scenarios in my head; vivid and intricate day fantasies to carry me until the night when I can sleep and dream proper. In my mind, I've shaped her form as if she were molded from the sun. Carved out of gold, in my mind she radiates with enough warmth to melt the snow that's covered this world four times over. She is my hope, my fuel, and the only thing keeping me from shutting down and having a white sheet tossed over me like everything else in this forsaken house that is my world.

I pull the cache from the snow, four fuel canisters covered by a tarp and tied together on a rudimentary sled. It is not incredibly hard to pull; I had the forethought to hide it up hill, getting the difficult part over with early. Though now, finding somewhere better to hide it will be much more challenging than the first time.

Of course it's then, while I'm struggling to pull the sled from where it's lodge in the snow, that I see something out of the corner of my eye. A fraction of a second really, something streaking across my vision, disrupting the infinite white. I keep pulling, trying to tell myself that it was a bird, though I had not seen a bird in all my time here, or a mouse, though I had only seen them scurrying about the nooks and crannies of the station.

Then another something darts by in my peripherally and it becomes nearly impossible to convince myself that these are not the larger vermin that stole the fuel from the generators. Impossible to convince myself that they've not tracked me down to find the rest.

Easy (Part 1)

“I never said it would be easy.”

The sound of her words have barely left the ether that is the space between us when the gentle sound of the power stopping reaches my ears. I can hear the transistors cooling with the loss of energy and I know that I've lost her again. The generators have failed and again, I am alone.

As long as there is gas in the generators there is hope, or so I've told myself these last few weeks. If I can keep the power on for long enough there will be hope; not enough hope to assuage my fears, but more than I've a right to have. More hope for the future and more hope for her.

Walking from my workshop and down the dark corridor though, the little flashlight showing my way before me, her words echo in my mind and I feel the aloneness as a tingling in the air and a depth in my heart. The aloneness that comes when her voice is gone and it is only the idea of her and the dreams that keep me moving. The dreams that I tell myself come from her somehow, through the ether and through the space between us. The dreams are what keep me going as much as the idea of her light out in the darkness.

When I get nearer the door though, I notice that the light is gone from the sky in the window and I look to my watch to find the time is long past when I'd thought. It is night and with the night I hope that the generators have stopped themselves from lack of fuel, from only the lack of my attention to them and not some other force.

I am wrong.

There is a scurrying when I punch the little plastic light by the door and I see the mice moving away from me. Two of them, it seems as if they run together. Even as small, alone, and emaciated as they are I can see they have each other and through that they have strength. One of them looks up at me and pauses, the light of my flashlight glinting off its little pupils and I swear there is an understanding there. He is secure in his companion and I am not.

Looking away I open the door and I see that there are other vermin out, and larger ones. It hasn't been my lack of attention that's killed the generators, it seems, but something else. I silently hope they have found only the generators themselves and not the store of fuel I've hidden away as I click the door softly shut along with the dimming of my light. I hope too that perhaps they haven't seen me; hope is all I have these days, at any given moment.

Quietly listening though on the other side of the door it seems I've been lucky tonight. The steps of many feet move quickly away and I quietly step outside with the quick beating of my heart the only sound to fall upon the snow beneath my feet.

The generators are still there and what's more they are chained securely. It is only the half empty gas can I'd left beside them that are gone, along with the fuel from each tank, siphoned by the thieves. The vermin were thorough tonight but they were quick and they've left my power sources at least. The cache of fuel was beyond them as well and is safe but when the sun rises I shall have to hide it all again and better than I have before. I know that I have been lax in that, so focused on my work these past few weeks.

Focused on my work as well as on the dreams. The dreams of her.

Rabo's Rambles, the Tumblr

This is a Tumblr where I post a different kind of ramble. A ramble full of real life stories and not just those in my head. Enjoy:

http://rabosrambles.tumblr.com/

When It Rains (Part 3)

The cafe down the street is called Lox and Love and it's part of the reason we loved this apartment so much when we were looking for a place. David's Jewish and he said that only this place had any decent lox in the whole city but really I just liked the quirky décor and the odd people that came here. Of course I haven't been since he left. It's only been two months but I might as well have never been here. The tables are different and everything seems way more modern. It's funny how things change so quickly—all you have to do is look away for an instant and it's a different world.

The puddles on the street are still giving off that kind of happy aroma and I'm almost smiling while I walk. Almost, even though I'm screaming and crying and gnashing my teach on the inside. Almost, even though I know that what's about to happen could overcome the happiest thunderstorm ever. I have to focus on the anger to keep it pure so I don't even begin to think of forgiveness.

But there he is, sitting at our old table in the corner. He's wearing a beard and I've never seen him with one. When we were living together I always marveled that I'd never seen a man who was so fastidious about shaving. There was never a stray stubble before but now he's sitting there and he looks like Grizzly Adams. He's a mountain man with bags under his eyes and shaggy hair. Just look away and maybe he'll change back.

I stop of course before I walk over to him and go to the counter, each step up the funny little ramp they have hitting with a loud report, I'm putting so much force into them. Everyone looks up but him. The few people who are in the shop today have smiles on their faces left over from the rain and my anger seems to quell that a little, even as silent as I am. David though, is just staring down into his coffee.

He looks up though when I walk over and I see that his hand is shaking a little as he holds his half empty cup of black coffee. Black coffee. He used to always fill it full of so much soy milk it looked like a vanilla latte but now, it's black.

“You're looking good.” The words kind of croak out of him like he's been silent for a long time but I know that we just spoke on the phone.

“You're not.”

“I know. Listen, I--”

“No!” I slam my cup down on the table hard enough that in a different state of mind I might be shocked it didn't shatter. Instead I stare at him with fire in my eyes and I sit down, willing him to silence with my mind. “You listen.”

My voice is low but I know he can hear every word; his eye twitches that way that it always did when we were having one of our rare, really viscous arguments. “I woke up alone on a Tuesday morning with a cold bed and two cats scratching at my face to be fed. I called you and called you and went to your work and looked for you and called every goddamn person we knew and screamed and cried and punched holes in the walls and had to take fucking Milo to the vet because he ate a bunch of hair ties and when they asked where you were 'cause they remembered you from before I had to say I didn't know and then I burst out crying and my mom told me to go see a therapist and they put me on meds and then I tried to fucking overdose and had to get my stomach pumped and,” I take a deep breath and start to go on but the fire has died inside me and suddenly I don't have anything to say.

“How are Bootsy and Milo? Is he okay?”

“They're fine, but no thanks to you. The surgery cost $2500 that I didn't have. I had to get a credit card. They have these special ones just for pet emergencies and. . .”

Suddenly I'm tired and I just wish this was over. He looks so sad and it's even worse than it would've been if he were angry. I can see in his eyes that this is as hard for him as it is for me. He's also silent and suddenly I remember that he called me here, not the other way around.

“What do you have to say to me?”

“It's a long story.”

“No, it's not. Now tell it.”

“That morning--”

“It was a Tuesday. The twenty fifth of March. I woke up at 9:27. That morning?”

“Yes. I left early for work because I was trying to beat the rain. They were calling for a lethargic shower and I didn't want to get caught in it. I was still trying to impress them at the firm and I thought if I showed up and got a lot of work done when everyone else was listless then they would--”

“Shut up!” Suddenly the fire is back, for an instant, and I notice that clouds are turning dark again outside. “Just tell me what happened.”

“I was hurrying down the street; hell, I was practically running because the sky looked so terrible and you know what the rain does to me. I've always been sensitive to it.”

“Then why the fuck did you want us to move up here where it rains every fucking two days?”

“Please?” He's begging me with his eyes and no matter how much I want to stop it I feel bad for him. “Thanks. I was running and when I was going past the front of the Starbucks a girl came out with a coffee and I ran right into her. We both fell on the ground, our arms and legs all tangled up like something out of a movie. When I looked up and started babbling apologies she screamed and I realized it was Monica.”

“Monica?” I don't know a Monica and I've never known a Monica. What the hell is he talking about?

“I never told you about Monica. It's a long story.”

“I've got time.”

“Monica and I were. . . We were engaged. We lived together for a while. I never told you but she was part of why I wanted to move far away. I hadn't seen her in years but she looked exactly the same and then well, it started to rain. Hard.”

The tears are running down my cheeks and if I were paying attention I'd be able to see the faces looking over at me and the rain pattering on the windows outside.

“It wasn't a lethargic rain that day. You know how the news people always get it wrong. It was a nostalgic, hopeful rain. Do you remember? It probably passed by the time you woke up but for a while there it just poured and poured and well, you know how it is here.”

“You both got caught in it?”

“We were soaked. I don't remember it all but then we were in her car. She was here for a conference. She had no idea I'd moved here. We went back to her hotel and . . . We caught up. There was another rain later that day. Do you remember?”

“Yes, I do. I'll never forget that day, even if you do.”

“I know. The weather was bad that week. It came and went so fast and it was so hard in little down pours. First it was nostalgia and then hope and then that strange sense of adventure that sometimes comes and then--”

“You fucked.”

He looks at me and he's crying too. I know what I said is true and all he can do is look at me with those sad eyes that have so many more wrinkles than they did just a few months ago.

“Where have you been since then? Your job, our cats, everything. I thought you were dead.”

“She. . . We both just kind of took off. She was leaving that night and I just left. All this seemed so mundane and I just kept thinking about--”

“Stop it.” The rain is coming down harder outside and I'm so wrapped up in my own emotions I'm impervious to it, whatever it may be. “I'm going to leave now and I don't ever want to see you again.”

“But, my things, Bootsy and Milo. Listen, I'm sorry, that's why I came here, to say I'm sorry.”

“No. It's not that easy.” And it's not. Everything makes sense now and it's all over. “You ran off with her and then she dumped you again, right? And now you've come back and you're going to tell me it was all the goddamn weather's fault and you're not to blame. You're going to say you couldn't help it and you'll try your damnedest to beg me back.”

I look him in the eyes and I can see it all acting out between us. I can see all the different ways it might go and I know I have to leave now. “Well, no. I'm leaving now and if you want any of your stuff I'll tell you were you can find it. I put it all in a storage unit on the south side of town a month ago.” I grab in my purse for a pen and while he's still looking at me in shock I jot down the address on a napkin. “I'll call them and tell them it's yours. The cats are mine.”

And then I'm walking out of the cafe and I'm not looking back. The rain is falling, of course, and it hits me in heavy drops that cascade off my hair and my shoulders. I know by the time I make it home I'll be soaked but I don't care.

Thank god the rain, for the first time since we moved here, since I moved here, doesn't bring anything with it but water and it feels so nice to be washed clean.

When It Rains (Part 2)

A happy rain falls on the day David calls. Like everyone else, I’m outside, though unlike the rest I take cover under an awning; even just being outside in a downpour like this is enough to catch the buzz of euphoria caused by the rain. There’s a warm thermos of tea in my hand to ward off the chill, but it looks like I’m the only one who cares. The kids are honest-to-god frolicking in the streets, their peels of laughter ringing through the neighborhood. Their parents mill about on their front porches or on the sidewalks, chatting and joking, and every once in a while a group will erupt in laughter loud and wild enough to match the kids’. Everyone’s in too good a mood to care about politics or petty neighborhood fights.

We all know the joy isn’t any more real and lasting than a drug high. The real world and all its grand troubles and little anxieties will come rushing back with the sun, and with a downpour like this coming back down to reality is going to be pretty miserable. Still, it’s hard to resist the draw of a dose of happiness, even a shallow one like this. And it’s a strong rain, too; I feel myself grinning even though I’m mostly dry. I don’t even check the number on my phone before answering it.

“Hello?”

“It’s me.”

My heart freezes, and everything around me – the patter of rain and the confused hum of voices – slowed to a crawl, and all I can hear is the roar of my blood rushing to my head.

On the outside, of course, I’m still smiling. The happy feeling hasn’t gone away even as David’s voice dredges up every last minute of sorrow and rage and despair I’ve felt in the last six months. The emotions rage like a storm inside me. One second, I’m on cloud nine, the next I want to run screaming through the streets. The world goes lopsided as my head spins and takes my stomach with it. They call it Precipitation-Induced Emotional Conflict Syndrome; the rest of us call is rain shock, when someone has an extreme emotional shock that conflicts with whatever feeling the rain is causing that day. Learning your dad died on a happy day, for example, or getting that promotion you’ve been working toward for years on a melancholy day. The conflicting messages sends the brain into a panic.

I tear open the door to my building and stumble up the stairs to my apartment . I slam my door shut and lean against it. The only thing you can really do is get out of the rain and wait for it to go away.

“Are you there?”

The urge to scream at him bubbles up in my throat like bile, and with it comes another wave of dizziness. I half-stumble, half-fall onto my couch before my knees do something foolish like buckle. The euphoria feeling’s fading, thank Christ. My stomach’s still tearing itself apart, but my mind is clear and anger is slowly winning out against the effects of the rain. Thank god I wasn’t actually out in the rain, or otherwise I’d have had an aneurism.

“What do you want?”

My voice is steady, but it still lacks venom. Still, I figure even David’s bright enough to know I’m furious at him.

“That’s harsh.”

Or not.

“I don’t want to hear that from you.”

“Look, I want to talk.”

“For fuck’s sake, David.” Now exasperation joins the mix of emotions swirling in my breast. He wanted to talk? Now? After leaving with no note and disappearing? I tell him as much, and I hear him sigh over the other end of the phone.

“It’s…Look, it’s not something I want to tell you over the phone.”

“It’s something you should have told me before you left, David. You left me in a strange city in an apartment I couldn’t afford by myself with no note, no notice…Shit, I thought you were dead until you bothered with the courtesy of a voice-mail message telling me you were alive.”

“I understand – “

“No, you don’t.”

“Alright, fine. Look, I want to talk. If you want to talk to me, I’ll meet you at the cafe down by the intersection.”

“And why should I?”

“Because I owe you an explanation. And because I want to tell you I’m sorry. Meet me there after the rain stops.”

The phone goes dead. I nearly chuck the thing out the window; my arm actually rears back before I come back to my senses. Of all the presumptuous, uncaring, bastard things a person could do. Where did he find the gumption to call me out of the blue and say he wants to talk?

Outside, the clouds move on to reveal the sun, and the rain slows to a slow drizzle. I grab my coat and slam the door behind me.

When It Rains (Part 1)

“Rain drops keep fallin' on my head. Just like the guy whose feet are too big for his bed. Nothing seems to fit. Oh, raindrops keep fallin' on my head Keep a-fallin' . . .”

It's always a gamble when the weather calls for rain. Regardless of what the weather man says, you never quite know what it's going to do to the world or what it's going to do to you. Of all the things we claim to be masters over, it's the weather we still haven't figured out how to control.

What was it Mark Twain said, something about everyone complaining but no one doing anything about it? That's about right. Everyone complains and every time the skies are dark and the little pitter patter of rain drops start the DJ's all over the world play that damn song.

And until those raindrops come you never know what it'll be; never know how you'll feel. No matter how much you look at the weather reports, it never seems to matter and it's infuriating. It's like they just can't figure it out. They just can't tell you what the rain drops are bringing with them today, or if they're coming at all.

And even when they're happy it's still the darkness, the dreariness, that gets to you. When they're happy it's like you're on Zoloft, like under the skin you can feel that you're sad but on the surface everything is fine. It's just like a it was a sun shiny day. Only it's not.

The medicated rainbow of weather, that's what they call it, and it's pretty close to the truth. But I guess that's what I get for moving to the North West and making it worse, here where it rains every day. I thought it would be exciting and God knows David was into it. He said it would be wonderful here, even with the rain and everything, and lord knows I'd believe anything he says. Or did, back when he was still here. Back when our little picturesque apartment, the one that was “perfect for a young couple who works from home,” was still the home for a couple. Not just me and the cats.

Funny, it never occurred to me to wonder if the cats get affected by the rain. They only have two emotions anyway, hungry and sleepy. I envy them. Instead I get to run the whole gamut, even though I stay inside, and especially when it rains. Maybe this one will bring something exciting like the other day when the president got caught in some of it on the way to a press conference and it was an angry day. I'll never forget him screaming at the camera, usually so composed, and hoping against all hope that he wasn't about to start world war three.

“I don't give a fuck what they say! They fucking invaded Ukraine and that's what it is, their goddamned ballots be damned. We'll bomb the shit out 'em and for fucks sake I don't give a shit what the EU thinks. Bunch of pansy assed fuckers trying to boss us around.”

Of course about then, a Secret Service guy swept him off the podium, bringing him down as he yelled for a “god damned, mother fucking” cigarette. It's funny how we build up safety valves. Funny how we adapt. The press secretary begged for forgiveness after that and I guess it came. People kind of get it I guess; I mean, everybody gets rained on occasionally. Luckily Moscow was being hit by a melancholic sort of rain and they didn't feel like they could fight back. Things have a tendency of working out that way.

An angry rain might not be so bad anyway. At least it might let me get out some of my anger at David. Anger at him bringing me here, where I don't know anyone and then leaving me with the cats and the bills. Leaving me all alone. The angry rain wouldn't be so bad and anything would be better than another horny rain. God that's worse than any other, especially when you're alone. It does make me glad that I can just stay inside though, that I can just sit here squirming and work in PhotoShop. Those aren't good days to go out in the cities, that's for sure.

“Raindrops keep fallin' on my head. But that doesn't mean my eyes will soon be turning red. Crying's not for me. Cause I ain't gonna stop the rain by complaining.”