The Odour of Rain

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He is the amusement in a cynical theater. People are puppets that neglect him, attached and controlled by the same string- the silhouette that forces him to suicide. Will he die or find out the truth? What would you do if you had to wake up from your own suicide every Saturday morning? J, a 19 year old faces the conjuring of his thoughts onto reality every day, it is a battle between reality and nightmare that takes place around him, yet no one cares if he lives or dies. Can we beat our own demons when they are the people we love? Can we kill what breaks us when we are already shattered? Can he find out the truth about reality or will he kill his thoughts and himself forever first? It all begins with a rainy day.

Horror / Thriller
Zen RM Santiago
3.7 3 reviews
Age Rating:

Chapter I - Rainy Thoughts

I find myself in the same crude uncomfortable position as I did minutes ago, perspiring heavily follow by rasp, austere intakes of breath- and with each, the chilling notion I would be found.

I move along silently through the bleak hollow corridors that seem to take irrational turns left and right.

I take a right, same structure of harrowing light bulbs adjusting themselves through subtle yet noticeable movements, and each light can be found a few uncountable steps ahead of each other, yet when I gazed back onto the oblivion that was behind me. Nothing. Just emptiness and whispers and unknown.

I keep on moving, I feel tormented by the continuous movement that seems behind me, it ominously seems to nearly but not quite grasp me with its pathetic dark claws. It is a disturbing mix of decaying odours entranced through my thoughts, mixed by the setting my mind created at this moment in time. Most people are conflicted by lucid dreaming- hell, I’ve been firmly told to stop exasperating my psychologist by telling him this was something more than a temporary mental crisis, yet like a cynical theatre: I was the only alive person, dumbfounded by the puppets immoral actions, questioning why they did not respond to my cries of help; in the background, a silhouette of everything wrong with my brain chuckling with its thousands of strings attached to everything adjoining me.

I stop. There is a silhouette, murky and insidious that sits perfectly still on the floor, the face masked by enveloping darkness, its legs crossed slightly too further in and in too much of an angle, so that would induce a flinch of sympathy by the observer.

‘Hi’, It whispers, yet I catch the words behind ear softly. My legs planted on the ground, quivering faintly. I can feel my pupils getting significantly smaller and the rims of my eyes significantly more sanguine; they are bloodshot from utter terror.

‘Here’, again it utters, followed by dry giggles all around me: from the grey walls, thousands of lips, eyes and noses clawing out the wall, smiling and tittering like lifeless children.

I find icy metal in the extremities of my pallid nails and missing fingerprints, a steel kitchen knife.

‘Go on, you desired this for a long time J.’.

This sentence repeats through the ruined vocals of the faces in the walls like a melody in distress, my hand shifts upwards along with the steel in my hand, and I understand the horrifying action I will perform.

My eyes glare at the reflection of the knife, towards the head behind me- my mother, who has long been deceased is gloriously relishing the notion of my suicide: her mouth forming twists on twists over itself, the putrefied tongue thrashes inside her mouth, resounding a gentle squelching sound, it makes me sick.

My hand begins progressing towards my neck again, the steel knife horizontally prepared for the acerbic act it is bound to make, yet all I can do is inaudibly plead to regain control over my body once more. ‘Don’t do this’. Chattering and tittering grow louder like an orchestra reaching its climax. ‘At least tell me why?!’ I bellow.

The faces grow into torsos through the wall as they reach out into the rancid air the corridors emitted. ‘Why are you doing this to me again?! Why?’, I begin to recall something and yet question what I’m saying, it is as if two different personalities are calling out for salvation in this situation.

The hand reaches the neck, the knife then gradually moves sideways deep into the veins; lukewarm drops turns into a tepid mess as everything steadily exits the opening in my throat.

I am bound to noiseless agony as the unrecognisable corridors fade black, now I immediately crave death but It is not conceding this wish. I am not allowing myself to die rapidly. I am somehow still standing with a perfect posture, my one arm to the side of my torso, and ahead of me, thousands of deformed shapes that tore through the walls are amused by me, grinning jovially.

‘See, it wasn’t so hard.’ The voices optimistically shouted, angered yet content.

Everything turns black, and once again, for the last time this week, I remember this specific nightmare- as if I couldn’t grasp that I had experienced these events until I had died and woken up. I find the temporary scar of the profound extended cut across my neck and rub it prudently, I wince in pain.

Memories begin to come back as I exit the pool of sweat my floor had become, in the other hand, my bed remained intact as I had left it overnight. I recall the specific day this nightmare always occurred on, and how I repeatedly died; in different manners with different weapons however.

Standing up, I move towards the shower and relish the lukewarm water that escaped, thoughts form in my head, my body clenches inwards and I bend, grabbing my stomach as I spit dry blood from my mouth. The scar that was embedded in the skin of my neck fades with the sounds of the water and I continue the routine I took on this specific day.

Next, I was to head to calmness if I was not to go psychotic: Vaur Park. This was the only solution to suiciding and waking up in sweat for the past 10 years of my life.

The Vaur Park

Cold bright autumn; howling trees resembling a dying orchestra in perfect horrified harmony.

Subtle movements of dry, browned leaves dancing across the grey ballroom the streets had become; strands upon strands of beautiful moss grass emitting a pleasant smell which many mistook for the odour of rain, yet this only complimented the traits: out of time, odd, hard, regardless, somewhat panoramic.

He could sit on the worn out oak bench for hours on hours, listening to the imperfect rhythm of icy winds distant in some other place, navigating around the empty silent streets until meeting his frozen solemn smile, dark emerald eyes- as if they were a true reflection of the grass beyond his vision, and the pale skin that turned vivid and obscure, as if not present in this world, but some unseen, unforgiving one.

His presence was ironic- sarcastic to nature almost.

He wore a luxurious black coat hugging his thin black shirt, yet his whole face remained exposed to the chorus of autumn.

Azure jeans that did not seem comfortable at sight, embracing his absence of warmth. He was sarcastic and careless to nature in every sense, but not due to some unreasonable, distant reason which only he could see, but rather because nature trifled with his demons and thoughts; nature made him the utter disgrace he became at this moment in time; or rather what he wasn’t, and that was humane.

He had given up on the thought of becoming ‘a part of something bigger’, belonging to a community or even having a friendship- most adults patronised his behaviour with being dramatic but no one was naive enough to neglect the sheer fear that glinted in their eyes for less than a second.

So, he spent his days sat in the rain in the abandoned park, belonging to the odd out of time rain, and he loved it, because at least he did not have to be in rhythm.

After a couple of hours, he began heading home; his black coat now seemingly grey swivelled around for moments onto his trousers, then quietly danced still much like the dense air around his aura.

He walked around the wet concrete path along the chaotic park that shrivelled and shook but nothing seemed to concern his solid, rigid face- it’s as if the world was not able to affect his imperfect mind, only the little unseen details of the paranormal could.

His rhythmic, straight pace of movement was somewhat elegant, and after hours of walking towards the train station, he sat down and waited patiently on the deserted ceramic bench that long awaited his encounter again, for the last time this week, as it had happened every other day, at exactly 7:00 pm, on the same disturbingly uncomfortable place.

Harsh sounds of metal cutting through rails invaded and consumed the yet again perfect silence that had manifested around his body, as it decelerated and achieved a controlled, repulsing pause, before being taken suddenly aback due to the leftover force of the speed acting on the giant metallic structure.

Gazing, he stood up and promptly moved through the two discoloured, tarnished doors that shrieked as they opened austerely; he did not seem to mind though, he welcomed yet again something with such aversion and dislike anyone may have; but he was not anyone someone could encounter with such ease.

Muffled, suffocating sounds whispered outside the grey windows, vandalised with unreadable names.

He was not sure it was entirely the sounds of the train making a such horrific, dissonant melody.

For the first time in the hours he was awoke that day, he crawled further into the corner of the sea of seats he had chosen, and postured himself to be able to only glance outside the window into the taciturn landscape, acknowledging he could still glimpse out of the corner of his eye onto the inside of the train; and whilst he knew they weren't real, it didn’t eradicate the hundreds of dead bodies.

Sat down, positioned to stare at him with a mouth resembling an overgrown smile, overflowing with teeth layered and layered upon and above each other. He was hallucinating again, he though.

‘Stop fucking with my mind’ he said through hard clenched teeth.

Nothing happened, he could still notice the unwanted presence of death around him, encasing him into his own thought. ‘I said, STOP!’ he bellowed, his vocals rattling like a fragmented instrument no longer useful.

As the echoes ran through seat to seat, diffusing into the hushed cynical joke the situation had become, they were no longer there, just the vanishing, imaginary mirage his mind bawled in response.

An eerie smile spread across his now pallid face, eyes widened with dread no longer shown. His dense manically insane chuckle infused the train with unknown humour; the chuckle shifted onto a livid frenetic laugh that spasmed his limbs subtly for minutes on end; until lastly his hands encountered his head and a panic-streaked howl pierced the air, gasps for air, followed by miserable cries expanding through his whole posture.

Screeeeeeech. Tsssss.

The doors of the train opened, rather serene now, and out he came, composed as if nothing had occurred; his unaffected features without emotion and graceful steps being shadowed by his charming coat.

The station was desolated, thick grey walls with paint fluttering for liberty; there was the smell of rotten in the air, not as how someone may find food out of date with a repulsing smell- but more as how the smell of rotten repulsion was in some manner bestowed in the air.

There was a melody in the strange noises that roamed the air, it was harmonic yet eerie; a sudden sharp movement slithered smoothly to the side of him, ‘Why Hello J!’ she breathed onto his colourless ear.

A sudden twitch in the side of his mouth that lasted virtually nothing, then turned with sheer force, rotating his body to abruptly kick the air, there was nothing there. A harmonic melody ruined by a note not in the key. Her hands sunk into his, almost with passion and eccentricity; she callously moved her velvet lips, onto his exposed neck and mercilessly uttered ‘You know I’m not, here right? I’m not real silly.’.

‘Why are you here again.’, he sighed, broken down finally, ‘You already did your little show in the train, and I assure you it was madly hilarious. Madly.’, traits of anger present, but not fuelled by soul.

‘Well’, she then proceeded to giggle softly under her breath after each word, ‘you shouldn’t neglect me!’. He was at her mercy. Exposed. Broken. Without a say regarding his own thoughts. ‘What do you need? I just want to be left alone.’, ‘To do what exactly?!’, a quality he hadn’t seen before, she was usually cheery yet direct, now she just succumbed to annoyance and resentment. ‘To observe grass and rain for hours without human contact? Such a waste of humanity’, she was exasperated by the notion of waste, he noticed. ‘There is elegance in nature, you wouldn’t know because-’, he looked upon her with such intensity in his eyes, ‘You aren’t real. You’re dead.’.

Crack. Crack. Crack. Terrible anguish excreted out of his mouth, his eyes almost turning back onto his own skull; he dropped onto his knees and stared in oblivious torture as most of his limbs were shattered and fractured into unreal pieces. ‘Say that again, I dare you.’ She became ominous as much as he was terrified. Yet. ‘You, don’t- don’t scare me. Bitch.’, he managed to straighten himself atop the broken pieces of bone his legs had become.

‘I’ll see you, J.’ a sweet shrill smiled formed upon her velvet lips once again, and as she turned onto a corner of the abandoned station, he knew she was no longer present in this world.

He was observant; he knew from previous experience that whatever malicious thing she did to him, it would be reversed as long as she disappeared afterwards; he did not want to know what would happen to him if she were to indefinitely stay. He didn’t want to know.

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