Black and Blue Raindrops

When she first hears the news, her porcelain mask, painted onto her face by the news bearer's expression and hesitant voice, is broken only by the briefest of nods. It is as if she has no other reaction, no other way to indicate she understands the situation.



Some whisper words like "So brave" and "Taking it well". Others murmur about how "stoic" and "unemotional" she is, and didn't she love him at all? Still a third group says she's just in shock and hasn't really processed the information at all yet.



But what none of these three realize is that beneath the mask she shows to the world as she deals with necessary, practical things like funeral arrangements and buying groceries, a roiling thunderstorm of anger and grief pounds the inside of her soul.



Always, ever she keeps the tempest under lock and key. She will not, can not let it out around the others, for fear it will attack them like a rabid dog. And so, she keeps it locked inside whenever others are around.



But when she's alone, she pulls out a pen, slips a leash on the beast, and lets it drag her wherever it will.



Letters, like black and blue raindrops, pour down the pages of her notebook from the tip of a dozen different pens in turn.



Sometimes the words come hard, fast and angry, the thick lines pounding the pavement. On these occasions, the rain is often punctuated by thunderous slams of the notebook, each sharp page turn a bolt of brilliant lightning.



Other times the emotions pour down in big, fat drops, wracking her body with sobs one minute, and leaving her sniffling and nearly dry the next.



Then there are the times when it comes out reluctantly, in a fine mist which obscures her vision, almost condensing on instead of pouring down the page. The drizzle, no less cold for all its seeming gentleness, slowly soaks her to the bone, until she suddenly realizes her gums ache from how long her teeth have been chattering. At these times, she simply sighs and draws her cloak of familiarity about her shoulders, feebly hoping to trap a little warmth within it's wet embrace.



But whatever form it takes, the storm remains a constant presence; even behind the porcelain mask, where no one else can see, the storm clouds linger, anxious to be released.



And so, unable to contain them forever, she allows inky tears spill out of her and onto the page.