rejectomorph | Twenty Hours Before the New Year (Reply)

I step carefully through the room, careful not to make noise, not to stub a toe on any of the things which now crowd the floor, such as the portable toilet which I recently emptied for the third time tonight. She has had almost no sleep for hours, and waking her would begin the cycle of chores again, and the constant groans. I must make sure that she remains covered, as the cold would surely wake her. I must adjust the covers carefully, as too much disturbance would wake her as well. When I am sure that she is covered and sleeping, I take a moment to slip outdoors and stand on the porch, away from the stifling smell and heat of the closed house.

All night the rain has been falling through the ground-hugging clouds. I shine my flashlight into the foggy air, and watch the blue-white light of its beam turn faintly orange just before it is swallowed in the darkness. The trees two hundred feet away are an indistinct blur, except in one spot where a glow emerges from a lighted window. I hear the distinct sound of nearby raindrops, but the more distant rain falls light, rapid, steady, with a sound like the ghost of applause.