It’s been raining a lot these days. I don’t get why people like the rain. Walking back home in the middle of the night as the water splashes on to you, fresh clay clinging on to your boots. It’s.. disgusting. Or it could just be the working class that finds everything annoying. I’ll attest to that. I’m great at complaining. It’s a coping mechanisms, I’m told. I wouldn’t know. I think it’s just one of those simple joys of life. Doesn’t hurt a soul. But the thing about this godforsaken downpour is that it’s funny too. The rain doesn’t remember things. It’s perhaps the only good thing about rain. Neither does it let you forget, this rain. The struggle back home is just a puddle tomorrow. New things to complain about tomorrow. Fun. The only thing that doesn’t get on my nerves is probably this podcast I’ve been listening to. True crime. Fancy. “It was a small town the kind where everyone knows your name. Not much happens here but this horrible crime had the residents in cold fright”
They really need to up their writing team budget, no? Haven’t you heard this a million times before? The laziness, I tell you. Sigh. I stopped at a traffic light. The red glowed in the darkness, glinting off the wet street. A black SUV sloshed by. Across from me, eerie blue refrigerator lights glowed from inside a corner deli. The chairs all up on their tables, feet in the air. The signal turned to yellow. Green. “That rainy September evening was no different for the young student. He’d left his shift at the local store and walked back home… except he never made it home Oh, this one. Sad. Truly. I’m not a very empathetic person but young people dying really gets to me, you know. There’s just so much to see. I wonder if he thought the same. Or maybe he was just like me. Working class types. Thankful he got out before his next shift. Good riddance. Might ask the devil for a nicer boss, a better home. Poor boy. Another thing about rain. It’s noisy. A constant buzz in your head and there’s nothing you can do about it. An uninvited ear-worm. But something about walking alone through this noise feels fulfilling. Like it was here for you. A friend. An accomplice of sorts. “The town conducted a volunteer-led search, and after two days, they found something”
Oooh. The body? That could make things interesting. Except, I’m sure the killer was smart enough to clean up. You know why the Zodiac Killer or Ted Bundy kept on killing people? Lack of respect. None of that power fetish garbage, just lack of respect. You treat the profession with a pinch of respect, a miniscule amount of adoration. Not everyone is built a killer. It takes courage, dedication. It’s almost… noble. A body is tough to get rid of. Say it was me, I was the killer. I would’ve never let you find it. Gone before you could even know. I would’ve watched his every move- the time he got off work, the slumped walk, the repeated calls. He was distressed, but refused to tell anyone. No one who truly loved him, you see. Good news. He meets me, his messiah. I’m a sick, twisted man who likes to see people scream, cry for help as the knife twisting into their necks, blood gurgling out, their body slowly coping, accepting, letting go. He needs this, he needs his release. So I help him out. He talks to me, I lure him in. Let him know I’m here for him, and then show him how wrong he was. How stupid. Teach him how to obey, and betray him anyway. Like life does. One last time. And then clean it all up, cut things into indistinguishable pieces. Like dirt. It’s hard work. And then, we go on a walk. In the rain, smell of new clay in the air. Him being dispersed into thin air, the rain washing away every sorrow, every pain.
“That’s all for now! Thank you to our listeners for their constant support. We’ll be back tomorrow with another chilling case that occurred in a town not so far away. A young mother and her child, taken away by a gruesome killer. Tune in-“ Oh, this one. Sad. Truly. Oh well. -click- That’s enough for today. Another entry in a lifelong legacy. An unending pursuit to mean something, somewhere. It isn’t raining anymore. The dust has settled. You can see for miles, reflections of shops watching over on the streets on the glistening road. The crumbs of tonight will be forgotten again. I’ll walk along the same road tomorrow, chime into the same radio station, waiting to be remembered.
But you see, the rain doesn’t remember things. It’s perhaps the only good thing about rain.