Rains, especially downpours with scream-like thunders and sharp-like-knife lightnings, for me, are bad omens. That’s why when I saw the bright cloud shifts from blue to violet to black, my hands started shaking, my heartbeats began racing.
I have no beautiful memory with wet season, I only have the stark opposite.
A catastrophic over-300-kph typhoon killed my entire, whole family.
No one’s left but me.
Some say I am lucky.
I beg to disagree.
It took five long years before my brain recuperated. Even quiet showers used to make me scream for hours. I was wrecked, drowned by the strong storm left inside me.
Now, as I hold her for the first time, mute waters trickle down my face in sync to the sharp flashes and loud kabooms outside.
“Congratulations, Sir. Do you have a name in mind?” the doctor asked.
My tear-stained face painted a shy smile.
Word count: 150
©2016 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo credit: A Mixed Bag
Sunday Photo Fiction is a weekly writing challenge hosted by Alastair Forbes where a photo is used as a prompt for a piece of fiction using around 200 words. The piece doesn’t have to center around exactly what the photo is, it can be just used as a basis for a story.