The Sound of Rain

Rain pummeled the worn and beaten up tin roofing. Only the quiet, comforting sounds of the rain attacking the roof and windows and the occasional creak of the house settling in were heard. The room itself was a pale green, like dying grass. The entryway was barricaded by a loveseat which seemed to be the only thing holding the brittle door in places. The window had a simply gorgeous view of a wheat plain, swaying with the rain. There was a small leak in the corner being supported by a singular bucket and several towels. The man who lives here is Damon Farroway. He is older than the others in his neighborhood, at the crisp age of 65. His back always ached when it rained. Now more than ever.

Damon had always found the rain soothing. But for whatever reason, he found himself drifting in and out of sleep. He sighed, rose from his bed and sat at a desk positioned perpendicularly to the barricaded door.His ancient typewriter practically needed a mallet to strike a key and he was scared of the ribbon jamming, as the thing could fall apart if it was lifted. But he glanced at his clock, reading 12:30 a.m. (He had gone to sleep around 8) and began to type. "Dear Self, today I dreamt about that painting of the coffee shop and what it's like to be in there. I hope this page finds my last few hundred well. But I feel as though I must tell you something. I feel as though I'm being watched. From where, I do not know. That is all for now. Regards, Damon"

Damon lifted himself out of his chair. It's true, he thought, he did feel as though he were being watched. But this was a thought for tomorrow. The chair Damon had barricaded the door with was removed and he stepped outside to collect his mail. And he still felt as though he was being watched. The Perkins usually didn't rise until the sun was halfway through the sky. Belial, the paper boy, greeted Damon and headed on his way. A thought struck Damon as he headed back inside. He hurried to his desk. Two letters in one day, how exciting, Damon thought. He began, "Dear Self, regarding last night's letter, I still don't know who is watching me. I suspect the Polk's boy again. But he's off at military school. Stranger yet, it's almost as though someone's watching me right now..." Damon stopped typing and got up and stood in the middle of the room.

He raised his voice and it felt hoarse. But Damon realized that he had left the bucket up too long and it had begun overflowing. He picked up the bucket slowly, and took it outside, where the cold water struck a nearby feral cat. Damon chuckled to himself as he walked back in his tiny house. But he still couldn't shake the feeling of being watched. He toiled and bumbled about for nearly a week, but to no avail. He practically tore his hair, so flustered to the point that he couldn't even sit down and type. That was the thing that bothered him. 

The rain came again and Damon barricaded the door, as once before. But this time, he saw what was troubling him so. He looked in a corner of his house. He saw what appeared to be a camera. He looked away, and a whirring noise followed his movements. He snatched the camera, opened the window, and tossed it. To his surprise, the camera got to a certain point and hit what appeared to be solid air. Like Damon lived behind a building. He put on his coat, and ventured outside to look at the transgression. The "field" was in fact painted. He shoved the wall, and a group of people showed themselves, sitting in bleachers packed into rows like sardines. Damon heard two large crashes as two more walls, one at each end of the road Damon lived on. Damon's life was a lie. His papers weren't disappearing. They were taken. "SUBJECT HAS GAINED CONSCIOUS", a rather harsh voice said. Men in black suits rushed forward. Damon noticed people he had met before: Belial, Garry Perkins, the cat, and Nora Polk. Damon's life came crashing down around him. "Go ahead for cancellation protocol.", said a quiet voice in the men's headsets. The sound of rain drowned out a single gunshot sound.