Page 60 of Praying for Rain

“I’m so fucking sorry.”

I coil my arms around her ribs, hugging her like I hugged that lying fucking pillow.

You are loved, it said.

I cough out a bitter, sorrowed laugh, tasting my own tears on her cold, clammy skin.

I was loved.

And here’s the fucking proof.

Rain survived the murder-suicide of her parents, the loss of her friends and boyfriend, and the disintegration of her whole fucking town, but it was my neglect that finally broke her.

Just like Lily.

For the first time in my life, I think about killing myself. I could just lie down beside Rain, hold her in my arms, and with Mr. Williams’s shotgun, add one more corpse to this fucked up house of death.

But I can’t. That’s my fucking curse. I’m a survivor.

And when I feel Rain’s pulse, weak and fleeting against my cheek, I know I was right about her all along.

She’s a survivor too.

April 23

Rain

“Look.” Wes grabs my arm as we cross the highway, pointing at the digital billboard above Burger Palace. “The sign is still on. What the fuck?”

I snort and roll my eyes. “They probably have a special generator for it. God forbid we have to go a day without seeing stupid King Burger on his stupid fucking horse.”

I give the animated asshole the side-eye as we approach, which he seems to return.

His cartoon eyes land on me as his deep voice booms from the loudspeakers. “What did you say, young lady?”

I look at Wes, who shrugs in response, and then back at the digital sign.

“I’m talking to yoooou!” The ground shakes beneath my feet as King Burger points his French fry staff in my direction. It becomes three-dimensional and a thousand times longer, extending out of the screen and stopping inches away from my face.

“I … I’m sorry,” I say, glancing up the length of the French fry at the raging monarch above.

“I will not tolerate profanity in my kingdom!”

I open my mouth to apologize again, but when I do, King Burger shoves his French fry staff right down my throat.

“Get those foul words out of your mouth,” he bellows as I gag and cough and gasp for air.

It’s not until I’m puking all over the sidewalk that he finally lets up.

“There you go.” His voice is kinder now. Softer. “Get it all out.”

I puke again, but this time, when I open my eyes, I’m hovering over a toilet bowl in a dark room. Someone is rubbing my back.

He’s saying things like, “I’m so sorry,” and, “That’s my girl.”

It sounds like Wes, but before I can turn to look at him, he shoves two fingers down my throat and makes me hurl again.

I swat at him, but my hands hit nothing. Wes evaporates like smoke, leaving me alone and on my knees. I’m no longer hugging a toilet. I’m in the woods, kneeling in wet pine straw and staring down into the watery entrance of the flooded bomb shelter. As my stomach gives one last heave, I reach into my mouth and pull something long and silky from the depths of my stomach. It just keeps coming, yard after yard. Once it’s finally out, I spread it over the ground to see it better.

---