It’s a heavy day, the kind that hangs about one’s shoulders and crawls down one’s spine, an itchy kind of day. The clouds grumble to themselves overhead, threatening rain but never brave enough to follow through. Instead, they hold tight to their burden as they sink lower over the city, squeeeeeeeezing the air, down and down and down, the sky folding.
It’s a sharp kind of day, the air humming with static so that one almost crackles when one walks, waiting with tense shoulders and bated breath for the shock that never comes until one is almost ready… to… snap.
“You didn’t say anything.”
It’s not a shock, but another grumbling threat overhead. Not sharp, but low and ominous. Nauseous.
Xyr shoulders twitch.
“There’s no point with them.”
A lightning rod thrust into the lowering sky, tempting danger, a lone figure standing atop the tallest tower, watching the storm approach.
Her lips twist.
“What do you mean, there’s no point?”
Closer now, the sound rolling around the horizon, chasing the words, hunting them down.
Xyr stomach clenches.
“You know what I mean.”
When it hits, the storm is so loud it is silent. The thunder roars soundlessly overhead, the lightning throwing jagged shadows against the wall, the systematic demolition of that daring figure shown in stark relief, one frame at a time. The rain falls in a flat sheet. It assaults the earth below, washes away filth and top soil and new growth and next season’s seeds in a single second of silent, inevitable violence.
Her voice stops.
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