The rain fell on the already sodden ground, coating my trainers with clay. Overhead, the tall, birch trees rubbed together, creaking like a child's swing, in an abandoned park. Apart from this, there was only silence. Running gently along the muddy path, I looked around at the water gathering in the ploughed fields surrounding me. I've always liked it when it is like this, so much more tranquil than other days.
A dull ache formed in my thighs and calves where the lactic acid was collecting and I ran faster, pushing the thoughts of today away. Adult life wasn't meant to be like this, all stress: the constant, confining anxiety that something, however small, would go wrong. Running was my release, although it never used to be. Art always used to push the worries away, painting large, bold colours over them; hiding them, but never resolving them. Now art was my work, the thing I worried about getting perfect every, single, day. My small apartment was filled top to bottom with sketchbooks, paintings and random drawings and it felt like I was drowning in them, but never, not even once, did it make me feel like it wasn't what I wanted to do with my life. Running just helped me to clear the vibrant shapes and colours that floated around my mind, allowing me instead, to fill it with calm and mellow views of fields and rain.
Turning the corner into a large, open field I stopped, suddenly staring at a huge oak tree that stood in the middle of the vast emptiness. Something was slumped against the trunk. I walked forward a few paces, then started to run towards it, every step bring the object into focus. As I grew closer, it dawned on me what it was, a person. Slowing to a walk once more I edged forward, every ounce of me hoping that they were alive, maybe a walker just stopped to shelter from the thrashing rain. But then I saw the blood.
I shut my eyes tight and swallowed hard to stop the feeling of sickness that was overwhelming me. Images of the knife and blood flashed in my mind, urging my body to run away instead of facing this. The rain seemed to pound harder, soaking through my shirt, causing me to shiver. Opening my eyes, I forced myself to look at the body in front of me. A knife was lodged into the man's chest and blood seeped from the wound, coating his white shirt. Oddly, he was wearing a suit, but why was he this far from the town? I pulled my phone out from the running band around my arm and called the police.
As I waited, I tried to figure out where I recognised him from. In the back of my mind I knew the face; the grey hair, the bright blue eyes.
When the police I arrived, I told them how I found him and that I thought I recognised him. They said they would let me know when they identified him and directed to another policeman. He was very young, possibly early twenties, and was watching me as I walked over.
"I'm detective James Ezra." He said, looking at my soaked clothes. "Are you cold? You are shivering." Shrugging off his jacket, he put it around my shoulders and then directed me to his car.
"So, Clara is it? You think you might recognise him?" He asked, holding the door of his BMW open for me.
"Yeah, I have definitely seen his face before." James got in and turned the heating up as I pulled his jacket closer around me.
"Hmm, well I'll let you know when we identify him. Can I drop you home?" He looked expectantly at me and as I decided whether I was going to tell him where I lived. I sighed and gave in, giving directions to my apartment.
When we arrived, he walked me to my door and then gave me his card.
"Call me if you need me. It can sometimes sneak up on you." Before I could reply, he turned and jogged back down the steps to his car, glancing back at me quickly before getting in.
He was nice, I thought as I unlocked my door and flicked on the lights. A feeling of numbness settled in my stomach and I tried to replace it with food, reaching up and grabbing a packet of chocolate digest biscuits from the cupboard. I sat down in the armchair and picked up '21st century portraits' and flicked through the glossy pages. Abstract art was my favourite and I immediately lay eyes on a beautiful, abstract portrait in which the brush strokes were so fluid and calming. Breathing in and closing my eyes, I tried to think about painting the same strokes, watching the thick paint merge with other colours as they flowed into each other.
Suddenly, the deep blues and greys started to change into dark reds and blacks, and the calming brush strokes that were present before, turned into the body, slumped against the tree. I was running, soaked through like before, yet not moving. My pulse was through the roof and I couldn't catch my breath as I pushed against the invisible barrier preventing me from moving. Prizing my eyes open, I tried to calm down and take some deep breaths but the images still flashed violently and my head spun. On the coffee table beside me sat James' card, his number, with big bold letters was scrawled across it. Picking it up with shaky fingers, I dialled it into the landline phone and listened to the beeps. It barely rang once before I heard his voice.
"James.. its Clara." I whispered, my eyes damp with tears.
"I'll be there in 10 minutes, hold on." And with that he was gone. I sat silently, curled up in the armchair, trying desperately to wipe the tears away.
YOU ARE READING
The Rain
Romance" I didn't realise it was going to impact me like this." I whispered into his shoulder as he held me. "I thought it was someone else, but it is definitely him, isn't it?" "Shh, yes it's him and we are going to sort this out, okay?" He pulled back an...
