Work Text:
You hear it first; you hear the brutal tapping at the window, on the door, you can hear it on the rooftop. You can feel the echo of the rain right through to your bones, as the cacophony of noise surrounds you. Thunder screeching, tearing through the sky, roaring, bellowing, cracking the air and fizzling until it reaches you. You see it second; the air outside being slashed by rainfall, cords of water falling uncontrollably to the ground. You see water engulfing the world outside, a mug that was left, filling with drop after drop until it’s full to the brim, making it overflow. You see the brilliant bursts of lightning, flashing for a brief moment before retreating, only to return not seconds later. Then you can smell it, that distinctive smell, the one that permeates the air and the wet pavement or water hitting stone which was once warmed by the summer sun. If you’re unlucky, you can feel it. You feel the rain beating down on your skin, making your movements heavy and your body shake from cold. You’re surrounded, immobilized; you’re controlled by the storm, you're blinded by it.
There are horses in the field next door, their coats a pristine white against the beige from rain and mud, hoping they’ll be alright. This is a summer storm. Some parts of your house are flooding, and voices are mimicking the screeching thunder, asking, ordering, bossing incessantly. But the raindrops on your window are forming a crystal mosaic, and some are forming rivulets that jovially race one another to the bottom.
After a while it leaves, the grey sky starts peeling away to a faded blue, the storm eases up, and you start to wonder when it’ll be back.