RELENT

Patter, patter, patter.
Plip, plip, plip.
Click, click, click.

The pattering of feet upon the pavement, some hurriedly, some slowly, nonchalantly. There was even a woman skipping and laughing, face turned up at the leaden sky, unmindful of the disapproving looks she was receiving. She looked so happy, like this was her first day in the world and she was cherishing it with all she had. Her clothes were soaked, clinging to her skin; she was probably freezing by now.

How our friend wishes she could be like that, so relaxed, so optimistic in such a depressing and sombre mood. But that would just hurt her.

The soft plip of the drizzle falling from the edges, for people standing under awnings, some anxiously looking on like they were late for a meeting, some with their eyes closed and headphones on, listening to music like they didn't want to partake in such a hectic race for shelter. They didn't hear much of the real, terrifying thunder-and-lightning storm, overhead, which ripped some umbrellas from unsuspecting hands.

How our friend wishes for shelter, or for such a calm conscience in times of hardship. But that unwavering calmness might be the death of her, and she wouldn't fare all that better with even more paranoia.

The clicking of heels on the road, women in suits and skirts confidently staring forward and walking in long, brisk strides. The clicking of people on their phones, some running frantically while trying to hold their phones on their shoulders, shouting incoherent words and messing up their bags as they attempted to extract their things. 

How our friend wishes for that confidence, that sureness, to walk through the maze of life in swift and skillful steps. But she knows even the bravest are afraid sometimes. She wishes for that dedication, that focus, of the ones who still attempt to assure their relatives that they're fine while jogging and tripping through the storm of the century. She admires those the most, maybe. But some of them care more for their loved ones than themselves. 

Our friend doesn't feel like she belongs with any of these people. She is moving fast and steadily, hearing all the mixtures of sounds around her, smelling that rain smell, seeing the people dashing for cover, feeling her body move up and down. But she feels cut off and distant.

Her mind wanders elsewhere, as always. But this time, this elsewhere isn't anything in particular. Just what her senses pick up, rushing in and out, being paid no heed. She's thinking of nothing in particular. Really just a gray and black blur moving in front of her. There are many bright signboards around her, lit up in neon, but her head is down and she doesn't look at them. She keeps forgetting where she wants to go.

Seconds pass with this same dull sensation, nothing pushing her forward, unlike the other people around her with a solid purpose. She expects something will break her trance soon, and she's right.

She's falling through the air before she realises she has slipped, and when her back hits the ground it feels like all the air she'd ever breathed had been collectively slammed out of her lungs. She snaps up her hand to her face so she doesn't get pelted with raindrops, but when she tries to force herself to get up and at least duck under a doorway or something, she can't move her body. Not like she won't, it's just that she's physically and emotionally unable to bring herself up. She thinks quite slowly now, too, and relents to the fact that she's going to be here for a while. 

Nobody tries to pick her up. She just lies there like it's her bed, unmoving, like a rock. Her eyes were closed for a while, but she slowly opened them, bracing herself for the rain, when she notices it's gone. She must have blanked out for a moment, because the storm is gone, though the sky is still gray and grumpy. Nobody bothers her, even now.

The view from a worm's point of view is stunning. If she were to draw this scene, if she had the energy and motivation, she would make it a one-point perspective. The roofs of all the buildings around her came to a stop in a little rough circle. The skyscrapers towered over the meek, smaller ones, but no matter what direction they all did point to that object of interest. The lights and signboards brightened up her surroundings, but for her it seemed like time stopped just for her, so she could see all that. It was beautiful.

The aforementioned object of interest was an aeroplane. It seemed like a child's little white puppet, hanging from invisible strings way up in the grim and foreboding sky. It still baffled her after all these years, how an aeroplane flew. She thought it magical, although she knew how it worked. She tried not to face the reality, to make it still seem like innocent child's play.

Our friend wished more than anything to grow wings and fly into the sky, and live with clouds and fairies and angels. It would be so amazing, to have no worries and just plain happiness. Actually, she would face hardships, now that she thinks of it. She would have to stand the overwhelming heat of the sun, the cold of the night and of course, she would have to brave the wild seas that are storms. But it would be a fine existence, and that's all she could ask for.

She hears someone ask her, 'Um, miss? Are you alright?'

She closes her eyes again. 

Why does she fool herself with dreams of happiness?

"I'm fine."