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You used to watch the rain together.
That’s the first thing that comes to mind when you see him again on the front porch, clutching a bouquet of flowers in a white-knuckle grip. The rest of it all comes flooding back after that, but you smell the wet earth and hear thunder coming, so that’s the first thing you remember when you see his face through the screen door, wary and fearful, like he’s the one who should be afraid.
There are still claw marks gouged through the wallpaper in the living room. Every time you see them, your throat seizes up and your eyes burn with tears.
“Vincent,” you say quietly, so quietly you hardly hear yourself over the rain falling outside. You see it running off of him as he stands there, sliding off the tip of his nose and dripping down his chin.
There’s a moment of hesitation until you hear him say, “hey.” His voice is hoarse.
(Those might be tears instead of raindrops. You don’t know. You’re not going to ask.)
There are words that want to come out, thousands of them all at the same time; questions and accusations and confessions. They clump up in your throat and you choke on them, unable to untangle even one from the rest.
“I,” he begins and cuts himself off just as quickly, looking down, shifting his weight between his legs uncomfortably. “Well. I know I shouldn’t have come back. No reason to. But I thought…I wanted….” He speaks with a cautious, rising tone, brimming with questions he’s afraid to ask.
You hesitate. A wall clock behind you impatiently ticks off the seconds, making you uneasy. You open your mouth to say something without having any particular words in mind, but he interrupts.
“I know. It’s stupid. I shouldn’t be here.”
A boom of thunder shakes the house and you both jump. He isn’t quite looking at you when he tries to crack a smile but your inability to answer is all it takes to scare it away.
“Can I just,” he stops again, giving a soft, frustrated sigh. “I’m being selfish. I know I am. I just wanna do this one last thing because it’ll make me feel better. It’s not about forgiveness; I don’t deserve that from you. I’m apologizing, but I’m not really expecting anything in return.” He looks timidly through the screen door but he doesn’t meet your eyes. Guilt weighs heavily on his shoulders. “I’d like it if you could come along. Just this one last time.”
You don’t know what to say. For a long time, you stare at faded, brown-red streaks staining the floor at your feet, too stubborn to be washed away. The screen door shudders with the wind and scrapes over the porch, uneven in its frame. The house will probably never sell, you think idly, not unless everything gets fixed up and properly cleaned.
Vincent is already leaving when you make up your mind, stepping back off of the porch and into the mud, giving you space. When you open the front door and it gives a harsh, protesting creak that almost sounds like a dying animal, he stops in his tracks and looks back over his shoulder. His eyes stop short of meeting yours, but his gaze softens. You fall into step with him without a word and neither of you speak to one another.
It’s a long walk. It wouldn’t have to be, but you both walk slowly, as if you’re hoping someone will break the silence. You pass the old, rusted gas station on the corner and you know both of your eyes wander over to it. You used to meet him there.
He’d stand beneath the canopy, hair stuck to his face, clothes damp and clinging, and he’d light a cigarette and squint at the night sky between the raindrops like it wronged him somehow. You didn’t know him any better than you knew the migratory birds that dotted the sky at the changing of the seasons, but even they stuck around longer than he did.
(“Nomadism,” you’d told him once as you sat with him on your living room couch waiting for his jacket to dry. “Not a real migration, you know. Not the right season for it. The birds are a little restless is all.”
Vincent had laughed. “Guess I got a little case of it myself.”
He’d come to town in a downpour and you hadn’t thought twice about inviting him over to stay until the storm passed. You’d had a habit of taking home stays since you were little; you weren’t going to tell him that, but he asked. Said he could just tell by looking at you.
“I’m not offended,” he said at the sheepish way you averted your eyes. “That sounds accurate to me. I definitely feel like a stray.”
He had a weary smile that stayed long after the joy left his eyes, and you found yourself clearing out the spare bedroom upstairs while he went to use your bathroom, throwing the sheets in the dryer so they’d be nice and warm.)
You’d have to talk first. He had that barbed wire and broken bottles rough-around-the-edges look, but the rain softened him up a little, made the weariness stand out more than the scars. You asked him where he’d been, where he was going; you never got the same answer twice.
And part of you wanted to say, “Must be nice,” because that same part of you wanted to leave, wanted to go where the birds did, following the wind wherever it went until your wanderlust faded, but you never did because it seemed like the wrong thing to say. He always sounded tired; maybe he really was.
You asked him once why he always came to this dead little backwater town where time had stopped fifty years ago, the same wooden storefronts of pawn shops and consignment stores painted in oversaturated colors right where they’d always been, the same dilapidated farmhouses off the interstate slowly being overtaken by weeds and rust, the same old, faded barns collapsing in one themselves.
(“Nothing ever changes,” you felt you had to stay, but he’d nodded at that.
“That’s why I like it here,” he said, and then you both fell silent and watched the rain a while longer.)
Vincent coughs, and it’s a sick, phlegmy sound, like he’s coming down with something. You were so startled at his sudden reappearance that you didn’t think to take an umbrella, but you know you would’ve offered it if you had. You used to do it all the time, but he wouldn’t have taken it. He always said he liked the rain, and he shivered when he thought you weren’t looking.
(You’d scolded him for not taking care of himself half a dozen times.
Once he stumbled in pale as death, goosebumps rising all along his arms. His skin was hot and feverish and he’d broken into a cold sweat, and he was muttering something when you dragged him onto the couch and told him to stay put, he caught your hand to stop you before you could walk away, tried to tell you something.
You said you were just going to get him something warm to drink, but he still wouldn’t let go. His eyes were bloodshot. He reeked of tobacco and sweat but there was something particularly unpleasant mixed in like wet dog. He tries to talk but it just came out as incoherent groaning. He squeezed your hand tighter, so tight it hurt, and you yelped and told him to stop.
“Didn’t mean to,” he said, panting like he was struggling to breathe. “Sorry. Didn’t mean…to come here. Just familiar.”
“I’m glad you came. You obviously don’t feel well,” you told him, but he just shook his head.
“You have to go.”
“What?”
“Go,” he repeated, his voice dipping into a low growl.
You didn’t understand.
The rain came down harder outside.)
You come upon a crooked iron fence that follows the dips and valleys of the hills just outside of town. You look the side and find Vincent slowing down, his footsteps slower and heavier like he can’t bear to go on. You know you have to speak first, like you always have.
“Vincent, why did you come back here?” you ask.
He doesn’t answer you. He comes to a stop just outside of the fence, gazing through overgrown foliage peeking through the bars, heart-shaped leaves and pale, budding flowers.
“Vincent,” you say again, more firmly. Still, he can’t bring himself to look at you.
For a time, there’s only the sound of rain. And then you hear, very softly, “I’m sorry.”
(The whole night is still a blur.
You think that’s for the best. You don’t need to remember everything.
You do remember the growling, low and deep and like no animal you’d ever heard before or after, the heat of his breath, the weight of his hands as they turned to claws. You remember laying there on the living room floor as he shuddered above you and you knew he was fighting with himself, he was trying not to hurt you, but he already had you pinned under him, he was already digging his nails into your stomach, already breathing heavy onto your throat.
You called his name over and over again and searched his eyes for a hint of the man who had sat on your couch and laughed at your jokes and slept in your spare bedroom, seeking shelter in the refuge of your company from wind and rain and wanderlust. You saw something deep within him looking back at you, pleading with you to get away while you still could.
“Vincent,” you said, “you’re hurting me.”
For just a moment, he went rigid above you, grip loosening, shoulders tense, eyes wide. You never looked away as you carefully wriggled out from beneath him, moving slowly, trying not to touch him. He started to growl when you got to your feet and walked backwards towards the front door, your hands in front of you as if you could possibly defend yourself.
He held on as long as he could for you. He did the best he could, trembling as moonlight seeped through your open curtains and fell across him, black fur rising along his body and enveloping him in darkness.
You saw him go under, slipping away beneath the surface of that beast.
He looked so afraid.)
“Vincent,” you say gently, and you try to take his hands in yours, but he starts walking again, and you know that he’s crying now, you see him shaking as he feels along the fence for the gate and stumbles through the underbrush.
“I’m sorry,” he says, over and over again, “I know I shouldn’t have come back, but I had to. I had to see you again. I needed to do this.”
“Vincent.”
“I can’t make it right, I know. If I could take it back, I would, I never would’ve gone to see you that night, never would’ve come to this town in the first place.” He comes to a stop, choking on another apology as he stands completely still with his back to you. You don’t make a sound as you come closer, slowly, and wrap your arms around him, burying your face in his back and the slick leather of his jacket.
“I’m sorry,” he mutters hoarsely.
“Vincent,” you say, “it’s okay. I forgive you. You need to forgive yourself.”
But he doesn’t hear you over the sound of the rain. He can’t feel your comforting touch or see the worry on your face. He stands there, shaking, crushing the flower stems in his hand.
All he knows is that your name is engraved on the headstone in front of him, and it’s all his fault.