the threads in her head

It's late at night. The stars are hidden by the clouds, stark grey against a deep navy blue, a blue so deep, the girl thought she would be absorbed by it all if she stared any longer. Yet, it didn't. She held her umbrella, and stood there at the side of the streets.

The newspaper forecast had predicted that it would rain in the evening. She had taken her new umbrella, with its clear plastic and white handle, so pristine, clean, sleek and smooth. She had taken it, huddled it close to her, close to her heart, and stepped lightly out of the room, gently resting the umbrella on the table before pulling on white rain boots, and a pink poncho. And her hands reached for the umbrella, and she held it close to her heart once again, and out she went.

She was ready, like never before. Ready for the onslaught of thick heavy water tumbling onto her, cold slinky wetness gracing her poncho but touching not her skin. Her pale wan face, graced by gently barely-there curls of fair hair peeking from under the pink hood of the poncho, was upturned towards the skies, her umbrella firmly gripped in her right hand.

So many times before she had been caught out in the rain, helpless and frail and not knowing what to do. So many times she was a victim of it all, as the cruel rain lashed down upon her, trickling down her fair curls, down the curve of her cheeks, with absolutely no mercy. Her hair got wet, her clothes got soaked, her dump socks squished in her shoes and every inch of her whole body cried out for release.

But today, today she was prepared, ready like never before. Today she'll hold her own. And she waited.

And waited.

And waited and waited and waited and waited.

But the sweet skies refused to let their water babies go. And it was late. It was really, really, really late. She still had work ahead tomorrow. Duties to fulfil, tasks to complete. Work ahead.

So the hand that held the umbrella lowered itself just a little, as though giving a little sigh. And her whole body was like a little sigh, hunched up, looking so sorrowful, so pathetic, so quiet, that ethereal figure of pinks hues and whites, with fair curls peeping out from just under the hood. Then suddenly, like the whole sigh had been given a straightening, it broke. The back was straightened, the hand erect.

And there was a joyous burst of clear plastic, held against the deep blue sky. And jumps were made into imaginary puddles, laugher at fake droplets of cold icy water against her face.