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On June 5th 2008 a thunderstorm raged through southern Florida. It began in the early hours of the morning, with raindrops lightly tapping on barred windowsills at Green Dolphin Street Prison. By mid-noon the prison island would be completely isolated from the rest of the world due to the extreme phenomena. But as it stood, at 5:00 AM EST, inside the ghost of an old music room, a certain prisoner dreamt.
Panic. His lungs felt like they’d burst any second now. Somebody was screaming. The screaming wouldn’t stop, and it was ringing in his ears. There were looming figures, some holding weapons. Every bone in his body felt broken. But he had to reach-
The man who called himself Weather Report shot up from his makeshift bed, the piano’s strings rattling. His breathing was laboured. Disoriented, he turned toward the tiny window. It was raining. He sat up, his joints mildly protesting the room’s constant humidity. Or maybe he was getting old.
The prison files on him were ambiguous at best. When first being taken into custody, the man had a hard time even stating his name. The interrogators would have assumed he was completely mute, if not for the quiet protests he let out after being kicked in the shin for refusing to state his age. Every second sentence that came out of his mouth was “I don’t know”. After lots of frustrated back and forth, it was hastily written down as “early thirties to early forties” and so it would remain to this day, written right next to a faint coffee stain.
One of the interrogators had attempted to argue that even his race looked slightly ambiguous, but he was shot down by dirty glares and a “For God’s sake, Steve”, and the man was marked as Caucasian. Days later he reported back to the office to state that his name was “Weather Report”. At that point the person keeping the files looked too tired to argue.
A dull wooshing sound shook Weather Report from his reverie.
“Weather! Are you feeling alright? I heard something-“
Slipping in through a slit in the room’s corner was a child, no older than ten years old, wearing an anxious expression on his face. The child’s name was Emporio. He was the one that had helped Weather make up (remember?) his name on those first few days. He had appeared through the walls, just like back then, and he had introduced himself to the new inmate with an “Um… You seemed to be having trouble. I could… show you around?”
Seeing as this seemingly teleporting child was the only one who had offered to be his guide thus far, Weather accepted. Since then they kept a silent sort of camaraderie, helping each other stay mostly undetected in the prison, and occasionally acquiring food and perishables. The bribing system the other inmates had going on was inconvenient to say the least.
“I’m alright”, Weather said, quiet even to his own ears, and headed to the couch. “Why were you awake?”
“I don’t have much of a schedule, besides being around for meal times”, the kid said sheepishly and looked around the room.
“It seems there’s a storm coming. I’ll try to sneak you some blankets later!” Weather responded with a grateful look. Then, with some force behind his voice, Emporio pressed: “Was it a nightmare?”
It wasn’t the first time Emporio had seen the man like this. Grunting in fear in his sleep was the loudest and most emotional he’d ever heard the inmate’s voice. When he was around, he’d see Weather’s face like this, carefully blank but somehow anguished, staring off into the distance, unshed tears in his eyes. “If you don’t mind me asking…” a pause, and when the other didn’t stop him, “What happened?”
Weather’s chest tightened. His brain felt like mush. His voice wavered, pained in a way he couldn’t understand, and for the umpteenth time in the past few years, he responded.
“I don’t know”.
⋆⋆⋆
At exactly 6:13 AM EST, in the better furnished side of staff quarters of GDSP, Enrico Pucci opened his eyes. The ceiling that greeted him was plain and pristine, though by the sound of the rain outside it would need another coat of paint soon. He went about his daily routine, mentally taking note of it. He'd have Whitesnake make someone do it, despite the stand's indignant hissing.
He got dressed, shaved, made black coffee. Communion wouldn’t be for another thirty seven minutes. Although, in this weather and with the chapel being off to the side of the main buildings, very few inmates would bother attending. “Ditch them in the rain” chortled Whitesnake. We have to do our job, at least, Pucci reprimanded back.
Besides, there was nothing else to be done. Years of light sleeping and fasting (“You’re just starving yourself”) meant he couldn’t sleep more or have a proper breakfast before the sermon. So, he bundled up, grabbed his umbrella, and walked out to the courtyard.
Walking at a brisk pace through the rain, the occasional puddle would still splash around his heels, though he tried to avoid them. A small part of him (one that sounded suspiciously serpent-like), dared him to step directly into them, possible onlookers be damned. That sort of thing always felt nostalgic.
Perla Pucci, aged twelve, always insisted on jumping into rain puddles on the way back from school, much to the dismay of her older brother. And to the dismay of the poor housekeepers, though Enrico would still be the one getting chewed out about it.
As the eldest, his duty was to protect her, be that from catching a cold, leaving muddy footprints all over the hall, or ruining another pair of boots. His duties also included having to listen to their father reprimand him in that stern tone of his while Perla, ever the little angel, got off scot free. Not that he minded. He could never really mind when he saw how happy things like that made her. Not to mention, one of the first things Enrico Pucci had learned in his life was to look complacent and pretend he was listening.
He still rolled his eyes when she took a running start and practically dove into one of the puddles, splashing water in every direction. “Aren’t you getting a bit too old for that?” he tutted.
“Pshh, you’re just jealous I make it look cool! Envy isn’t a good thing, ‘Rico!”
“Of course, my sincerest apologies, your highness” he smirked.
She paused over the next puddle, staring at her reflection, slightly distorted on the pavement. “Ugh, my hair got all frizzy again. That’s it, I’m making aunt Elena buy me a hair iron next time she visits”.
“That will both completely fry your hair and make mom want to kill you”.
“Not if I tell her you approve. Then we both go down together!” She smiled triumphantly.
Enrico made a shockingly convincing “exhausted middle aged man” face for a fourteen year old. He was halfway through a retort, when Perla hollered “Race you home!” and took off at full speed, splashing water all around her.
A beat passed. Enrico sighed once and ran after her, at first trying to avoid getting drenched, then giving up and racing her properly as she giggled ahead.
By the time they were back home they were both soaked to the bone, resulting in some particularly nasty glares from the housekeepers.
Perla had been breathless, water dripping down her hair in rivulets. Just as she would be two years later, being pulled out of the river by the police, skin bloated and clothes soaked.
Pucci suddenly felt nauseous. Not eating was a good idea, he decided. His strides sped up. The crisp humid air was hard to breathe in. “Calm yourself, it’s only morning”.
“Two, Three, Five, Seven, Eleven, Thirteen, Seventeen, Nineteen, Twenty three, Twenty Nine, Thirty One…”
Rain in Cairo was a seldom thing, at least when he visited. The humidity would lessen by sundown, and him and Dio would sit in the garden, discussing anything and everything. Though Plato was the usual subject, Dio found Freud particularly amusing. He’d laugh heartily as Pucci tried his best to go through his theories. It usually resulted in both of them chuckling and wondering if the man had been affected by a Stand.
“Thirty Seven, Forty One, Forty Three…”
Breathe in. Breathe out. He had reached the entrance of the main building. Staff members and the occasional inmate started greeting him. He stiffly said good morning back.
“Many happy returns, Father!” exclaimed a guard as he was passing through a hallway.
“Pardon me?”
“Ain’t it your birthday?” the other smiled. “June fifth, pretty sure you’d said”.
A brief pause. “Indeed. Thank you for remembering. God bless you”.
He never cared for anniversaries. Didn’t even remember mentioning it, hadn’t planted anything in anyone’s head about it, yet this insignificant guard took the time to remember. Pathetic, really.
“You do remember dates, though” Whitesnake pipes up. “You met Dio on September 7th. He died on January 16th”.
Pucci sighed and headed to the chapel.
⋆⋆⋆
Weather Report decided to shake the proverbial clouds from his mind by leaving the music room and walking to the cafeteria. After all, he shouldn’t rely solely on Emporio to sneak in food for him. Weather was an adult, and he was actually registered as an inmate who could eat there, while the child… wasn’t. Weather had wondered on occasion what kept Emporio from simply leaving this place, considering the circumstances, but he didn’t push it.
The rain falling on the courtyard couldn’t really be considered a drizzle anymore, but the man paid it no mind as he strolled towards his destination. He recalled something about tropical rains being warmer than the normal kind. He had picked that up from leafing through old magazines and TV guides, though he questioned its legitimacy. Nevertheless, there was something oddly familiar, almost comforting about it.
“Haha! Wes, you look like a wet puppy”
“Do I, now?”
“Yuck, would you guys cut it out? We’re trying to catch a ride so we don’t drown here, and you’re acting like newlyweds or some shit.”
“For real, I can practically see the white picket fence and the dog. You’re already like one of those old couples that have spent so much time together they kinda look alike, bahaha!”
“Boo, you guys are clearly just jealous. Right Wes?”
“Clearly.”
“Oh and now that you mention it, one of the geek journals ‘Rico keeps around had a study like that, I think. Like, “People are attracted to individuals with similar features as themselves, or some such.”
“What- Isn’t your brother in a seminary or something?”
“Well yeah, but he likes this sorta weird stuff. It’s lame but kinda fun at the same time.“
“Suuure, Perlina.”
“Hey, leave him be, or he won't be saving your sorry asses next time you need help with a science project-”
“Oh shit, here comes a car! C’mon guys, let’s stop ‘em or we’ll freeze out here!”
“You don’t have to tell me twice-“
“C’mon Wes, run!”
Run.
Weather Report recoiled as if something venomous had bit him. That’s what the voice in the dream had been screaming. Wes, run! Wes? Who is was that?
The rain had started really picking up, and all hopes of some morning exercise for the inhabitants of GDSP had been crushed. The yard was empty now, everyone having already run for shelter a while ago. Raindrops tapped on Weather’s forehead, dripping down to his eyes and obscuring his vision.
He froze, right in the middle of the courtyard, his heart seemingly stopping in his chest. It was a woman’s voice, in his dream. A girl. She sounded like she could barely breathe, and she was yelling at the top of her lungs. Not for help. She was yelling run. But he couldn’t. He had to follow the voice, he had to take their filthy hands off of her.
They were scum. If they wanted him they could have him. But he’d never allow anyone to touch a hair on her head, he’d promised that. Her usually melodic voiced sounded unnatural screaming at him. It wavered and broke and then at last it faded off.
The courtyard was beginning to flood. The rain was beating down on his face and shoulders with vicious intent, like nature wanted to erase him from existence. Like he never should have been here in the first place. Weather couldn’t see it. His ears were ringing. His vision was swimming. His breath was coming out in puffs. Water kept mercilessly pounding on the back of his prison uniform.
Finally, everything came to a screeching halt. The world seemed to go dark, and his knees buckled. He ended up prostrated, as if mid-prayer, on the ground.
⋆⋆⋆
As expected, the sermon had finished early, with only seven particularly pious inmates in attendance. By that time, the rain had turned into a downpour. Pucci suspected an order to stay inside for the remainder of the day would be issued soon. He handed out a couple forgotten umbrellas left in the chapel on other similar occasions, locked up, and followed the small group of people back to the main building. They walked close to the walls, those without umbrellas trying to shield themselves under the building’s ledges.
Reaching the gates, some ran quickly inside. Others, Pucci included, noticed a small group of guards gathered by the entrance and stayed to see what the commotion was about.
“Is something the matter?” Pucci inquired the one he recognized as being in charge.
“We… We seem to have a bit of a case in our hands, Father.”
Pucci turned toward the spot where their gazes were directed at, and froze. Right there, in the middle of the courtyard, almost obscured by the quickly descending rain, stood a man. His face wasn’t visible, but he was hunched over, his posture betraying someone much older than his appearance. Thirty-six as of today, Pucci’s mind helpfully supplied. He seemed to be in a trance, standing perfectly still amidst the torrent of water.
“Y’ think he’s sleepwalking or something?” asked an onlooker.
“Right in the middle of a damn hurricane?” quipped another. A crowd had begun to form around them.
“Pshh, probably had one too many yesterday night.”
“Ten bucks on him not lasting five more minutes.”
Whitesnake stirred under Pucci’s skin, but he remained blessedly silent. Two, three, five… He turned to the guards.
“Well, won’t somebody go fetch him? He’ll die of pneumonia at this rate.” Just as he should have died thirty six years ago. Yet here he was. His hair, usually looking much like Pucci’s own when it wasn’t cropped short, was wet and matted to his face. And there he stood, like a ghost. The one that should not have been taken. The wrong brother.
“Well…” the guard fumbled with his words “It’s a bit of a long walk to get there, eh? You could get swept up by the water at this point, I wouldn’t wanna risk my men-“
“Why does the gravestone have our name on it, mama? And the date’s the same as-“
“That was your brother, Enrico. His name was Domenico. You don’t need to worry about him now, he’s gone to Heaven. He’ll rest easy.”
Heaven was where Enrico was told he’d go if he was good. It had sounded like the greatest reward to him. In that case, what had his brother done to be rewarded? How come he didn’t have to work hard to get there? It had seemed awfully unfair to Enrico’s young mind.
…A hundred and twenty seven, a hundred and thirty one, a hundred and thirty thr- no, divided by seven and nineteen, a hundred and thirty seven, a hundred and thirty nine, a hundred and forty three- wrong, damn it, a hundred and forty nine, a hundred and fifty one, a hundred and fifty three- God damn it all…
He bit his thumb, nicking at the skin, the fingernail having long been reduced to little more than a sliver.
“-and the rain will let up soon anyways, right?” the guard was droning on.
Pucci didn’t realize when he had started walking. He swiftly left the canopy and started heading towards the center of the courtyard, ignoring the chattering from the crowd and the “Father, your umbrella!” of the guard in charge.
It took less than a handful of seconds for him to get showered in the torrent. He kept striding straight ahead. He quickly reached the man, now crouched at his feet, staring off into nothingness. He loomed over him for a moment, but the other didn’t seem to notice. Pucci crouched down next to him.
“Come now, that’s enough” he muttered, entirely to himself, drowned out by the storm.
He threw the man’s arm over his shoulder and, with a quiet heave, both of them stood up. They started slowly walking back to the canopy, the man limply being dragged ahead by Pucci. It must have been some sight, because as they reached their destination, the chattering had completely seized and the guards along with the inmates were quietly staring at them.
Pucci hurriedly let the man he was carrying lean on somebody else, and curtly addressed the man in charge once more.
“Make sure he gets bathed and he’s given a change of clothes. If he grows ill and it spreads I will not hesitate to report you to management. Everyone else seize your gawking and head inside, you don’t want to inconvenience the medical staff more than you already have. Now if you’ll excuse me, I endangered myself by doing your job, so I’ll go run a bath for myself.”
He nodded once, turned on his heel and left. After a moment of silence, the crowd started dissipating and the guards carried Weather off to the infirmary. He slowly came to, sometime later, vaguely remembering the incident in flashes. One thing that stood out to him amongst the chaos in his mind, was that the chaplain’s voice had sounded almost protective.
Outside, the storm raged on.