On a normal day the yellow rain slicker made him stand out like a slice of lemon pie in a donut box. But today wasn't a normal day. There was a storm brewing. Rain percolating into ceaseless, unrelenting torrents.
He hugged the slicker tighter around his body. "Always be prepared," his mama had harped. Too bad she hadn't heeded her own advice. Pushing papa's wheelchair into the rain-drenched river was her first mistake. Allowing her young son to watch had been a fatal error on her part.
He remembered mama dragging him to the higher ground of the attic, the storm pulsing through his brain, pelting him with memories of his father. Papa's warm smile. Papa's gentle hugs. Papa's old service revolver hidden in the attic. When the storm receded, mama was gone. Washed down the river with papa. He was twelve that year -- the year he and the storm became co-conspirators in the power of life and death.
He shook himself back to the present. Another hour and the river would reach flood stage. He could feel it pushing and pounding against the earth that restrained it. His blood raced with the current, longing for release from civilized constraints. He raised his face to the downpour, feeling the heartbeat of power in every drop of rain that caressed his face. He patted his pocket, relishing the solid comfort of papa's gun resting against his thigh. Soon...
Lightning ripped across the horizon, illuminating the river. He spotted the watcher standing guard at the levee, ready to sound the alarm when the river could no longer be held back. But there would be no alarm sounded tonight.
He stepped from the shadows and strode across the street to the bank of the river. He eased the gun from under his slicker and jabbed the muzzle into the watcher's back. Thunder cracked as the body fell into the surging water. He'd provided the sacrifice that would set the river free to roam and plunder through the city.
In exchange, the river would sweep away his transgressions. He blew her a kiss, then waded back to his truck. The storm was racing east. And he would follow after.
Copyright ©2006, Sandra Seamans All Rights Reserved