Story of a Storm

Drip… Drip… Drip…The sound was painful to my ears; every pot and pan in the house was being used to catch the water, every bucket, every drinking glass was full! And still the water splashed against the furniture and soaked into the carpet. My precious Persian carpet! I stared longingly over at my big queen bed, which I had long since had to leave on account of the water. I rolled over on my mat on the ground and pulled the lavish, yet somehow inadequate blanket up over my head and closed my eyes. Once again I tried counting sheep. For the hundredth time I tried to picture the fleecy white bulging bodies; clouds, with little black hooves protruding from a mass of whiteness, floating up silently over my head, one by one. I imagined so franticly that I could almost hear their distant baa-ing; and I counted them, counted until I could count no more, and the sheer repetitive dullness of it had just about dragged my mind to the brink of sleep. Sleep! That serene and tranquil bliss that occurs when all thought is erased from your mind. But, alas! Just at that moment, Drip… Drip… the unceasing rain would bore a new hole in the roof directly over my head, and cruelly wrench me back to reality. Drip… Drip… the insufferable noise wracked my nerves like the agonizing torment of Chinese water torture. I’d been sitting there in a pile on the ground ever since the storm hit earlier that evening, and straightaway bore a hole in the roof, directly above my bed, forcing me to move. I started to wish I were back in San Francisco, where at least it was dry. But no, I couldn’t do that. If they had nothing better to say about me, at least they couldn’t say that I gave up.
But let me explain. Earlier this year, I moved from my parent’s massive house in the yuppy-ville of San Francisco. You see, I was sick of being spoiled by them; and I hated having to live up to their too-high standards. I wanted to move out and make a living for myself, to escape the stifling pretentiousness that infused the atmosphere there. Just the thought of another day spent in the endless confines of that worthless place, listening to their inane blabber made me want to curl up in a corner and die. I couldn’t let myself turn out like them. It’s not like they respected me anyway. Why should I stay there to please them? I wanted to leave their sorry asses behind. And that’s exactly what I did. I packed my bags silently, so they wouldn’t try to stop me. Then I bought a train ticket north, and left without a word. Nobody thought I’d last a week. After all, how could I possibly survive without “Daddy’s money” to fall back on?
Somehow or another, I made it to Washington and got myself a job decorating rooms for wealthy families. That was one of the times where “Daddy’s money” did come in handy, since it paid for me going to one of the most expensive colleges in San Francisco. I had never wanted to go there, but that was back when I actually tried to make them happy and so I did what I was told. I graduated with honors, but I think my father’s money had something to do with that. I think it also had something to do with getting me the job as interior decorator, because being the daughter of one of the richest men in the states can have some advantages. God, I hate the sound of that. So anyway, now I live in Washington, in my own vast apartment, but in the same rich circles that I hated so much before! I remember the last words my father had said to me before I ran away that night. “You can’t change who you are,” he had said. I vowed to prove him wrong. So, granted, it wasn’t much of a change, but at least I was doing something on my own for the first time in my life. And that was good. I started to enjoy my new life. I was proud that I could live on my own, and proud of the apartment which I lived in that I paid for from my own pocket. But I guess in a way my father was right. Being spoiled for so long takes a toll on you. It’s something you can’t change. You start to think you’re a step above everybody else, just because they weren’t brought up the same as you. You act like you have manners and they don’t. Or you have money and they don’t. It’s a horrible thought, and it’s why I left San Francisco and my family to begin with. But even so, I know that it’s a part of me.
The night of the storm, I found out that my choice to leave home wasn’t such a good one. That night was the first time it rained since I moved there. And of course, it was the biggest storm in years. On every channel, the TV warned people to go to storm shelters; or at least they did before the rain shorted out the electricity. I should have gone before the storm hit full force, but of course I could survive a little storm! For the money I was paying for this apartment, it ought to be able to survive nuclear war! And besides, I wasn’t about to be seen in a public storm shelter, huddled on a blanket in a corner with everyone else! No, of course not. So instead, because of my stupid pride, here I was, huddled under a sopping blanket in a corner all alone; and in much more danger of the roof collapsing in on top of me. How could that be any better? I wanted to go crying back to mother; tell her that she was right, I was wrong to leave, and I was sorry. But the thought of what mother would think of me if she ever found out that I bought a house with a roof that doesn’t even keep the rain out, (at all!) was too much. “I’m not leaving. I can survive on my own; I don’t need her!”
And anyway, I couldn’t leave now even if I’d wanted to. No plane would fly in this weather. I couldn’t even go to a storm shelter because the second I stepped outside, I’d probably be struck by lightning. And if not, then driving in this weather would surely have the same effect.
I glanced up at the ceiling, at the strong and stately wood beams that came to a point so high above me, and wondered how something that looked so solid could be so… well… un-solid. I wondered which incompetent fool it was that didn’t think to make the roof even remotely waterproof…I cursed it. I cursed the roof, and I cursed whoever who had made it. I knew that me sitting here, whining and cursing the stupid ceiling was doing me no good whatsoever, but I didn’t care. I hated this. I hated being trapped on the floor of my own apartment, watching helplessly as the ceaseless rain slowly and efficiently destroyed my beloved belongings. I hated the storm that raged so violently outside my tall arched windows. Just then, the horrible pressure began to lighten-just a little-to tease me into thinking that the worst was over. The livid, green skies mercifully began to clear and the brutal dripping came less and less often. But I knew that in a moment the skies would re-darken, the room would shake with the ear- splitting roar of thunder, and the offensive dripping would resume its callous mission to torture me. With a muffled sob, I buried myself farther into my sopping blanket, and prepared myself for the worst.