Tempest. // gruvia au

1

Gray

It slicked the old wooden floor boards, coating them with a gleam even in the dimly lit night.

It dripped from the sky, as if it wanted to wash Gray away like watercolor, or the dirt on the porch.

It sloshed around at the shoreline, the tides repeatedly kissing the shore no matter how many times it got pushed back.

Water was everywhere, and Gray was damn sick of it.

However, he stood there anyways, leaning against the rotting wooden railing that night. The old damp thing moaned against Gray's weight, and he almost didn't care that it was close to toppling over. Almost. That old man would be mad if it did. And that was a bother.

Also because he was to busy contemplating the dirt that swirled around at his feet, being washed away from the porch in tiny little streams caused by the rain.

He wanted that rain to wash him away, too.

Just like every drop of rain that gravity pulled from the clouds Gray wanted to be pulled down as well. He wanted to melt into a sloshing puddle on the earth.

Feeling self-conscious about how weird that thought was, he redirected his energy towards hating all that water.

He hated that damn water. It was everywhere.

He gazed the scent of those wilting camelias the old man kept on the porch floor, too.

Off topic. Gray wanted to think about hating all that damn water.

He hated that damn water.

He really hated it.

"Son?" an ancient voice croaked from behind Gray.

"Right here, Gramps." Gray watched as the old man hobbled outside, letting his creaky porch door swing shut behind him. The door was set on it's hinges lightly crooked, so that the corner scraped against the porch floor. Gray narrowed his eyes dissaprovingly at the scratches left on the wood floor as a result.

"Who built this place, anyways? The structure was designed so poorly. I mean, I'm surprised the wind hasn't knocked it down."

Gray shook the rickety railing for extra emphasis. As if to prove his point, the flimsy thing gave out a moan, buckling under the little force. A supporting beam cracked at the base, snapping like a toothepick. Splinters jagged out from the wood, and left the porch lopsided.

Smoothe. Gray had just broken his clients' porch railing.

Gray stepped back from the wreck, under the porch's tin roof which served as a shelter from the rain.

"Sorry, Gramps. Didn't mean to break it."

If the old man was upset, he didn't show it. He just continued to gaze calmly at the rain from beside gray.

"It was built a long time ago, this cottage. Before that son of ours was born." He closed his eyes, seeming to be replaying memories as old as the wrinkles behind them.

Gray respected Macarov's space, and continued to stand awkwardly next to the elder. Maybe focusing on the pitter patter of rain on the tin roof would help.

Macarov finally opened his eyes, his smoothe yet tired voice finally breaking the silence.

"Well now, can't say I'm to thrilled about this rain. The dampness makes my joints sore. The humidity, too. Thats bad for my arthritis."

"Why don't you visit an apothecary or something for that?"

"Ah, they can't help. It's just because of old age. Getting to the village is quite a journey for me, too."