Pleasure in Rain

.:.Pleasure in Rain.:.
It started off with “my regular walk from work”, I felt the rain on my body, but never cared to realize what it symbolized. That late evening, I was an orphan to the precipitation, because I had no one with me. As the rain drops had continued to fall and the lightning was bound to strike, the murderers mind was awaiting. I walked alongside the fields, with my black laced skirt and a white blouse. It was a normal right-leg left-leg walk. Nothing seductive. But what was it about my appeals that made the mass murderer jump out of the fields and grab me by my virgin hair? I yelled. It rained. I cried. Lightning stroke. I learned nothing could tame a bull. I never got to see the face of my murderer. But if his face was as ugly as his actions, I wouldn’t be surprised. My tears drenched the soil, as I heard him breathing heavily over my ears. He told me to close my eyes, and to pretend that I was enjoying whatever he was doing. I was never touched the way I was by a man, but the way in which I was violated most definitely it had to be a man. “The hands over my mouth was delicate…his hands were soft.” As I kept thinking about what was going to happen next, I was continuously distracted. I was subjected face to face the ground, “I was forced into pleasure”. He had his time with me, a good 30 minutes. Half an hour of my life which was devoted to degradation. As the man turned around to check if there were any “spectators”, I managed to move with the little amount of energy I had in me. He concentrated on the fields, little did he know, that Mother Nature was the only witness and she herself couldn’t bear the nuisance that was happening before her eyes. “With the little amount of clothing I had on my back, I ran.” I could care less if I was naked, what is the use in covering something that is no longer yours? As I reached safety, was trying to warn others about the man I never saw but only felt? It was repulsive rape. No matter how many raindrops fell that night, no amount of water could wash his scent off me. No matter how much lightning was heard, no amount of volume could maximize his violent voice. No matter how much I bled in those fields, no amount of pain is greater. No matter how much I cried out, no amount of sympathy was found in the man who received pleasure in rain.
By: Vinoda Maruthalingam
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