Page 2 of When It Rains He Pours

Sealing my eyes shut instinctively, I stood still, inhaling deep breaths and trying to muster the strength to look. I couldn't, I didn't want to. I knew what I was about to see and I wasn't ready for it.

The slow creek of the door as the rusty hinges swiveled inward, rang in my ears. The eerie silence of anticipation swelled in my chest like a hot air balloon, growing and building, turning my nerves upside down.

Someone broke in.

You have to look, there's no way you can't.

Releasing the air from my lungs in one long whoosh, I opened my eyes and glanced around. Instantly, my heart sank into my stomach, chest collapsing around itself and suffocating me where I stood.

I can't breathe.

Oh my god, I can't breathe!

Holding my chest, I inhaled through my nose, exhaling out my mouth, repeating the cycle over and over again. Every part of my body instantly hurt, like I had been pushed off the back of a truck and dragged for miles across rocky pavement.

My work is gone. . . It's all gone.

Who would do this?

Why would they do this?

Stepping over one broken painting after another, shards of wood speckled the floor like sharp thorns, while sheets of canvas were ripped and strewn about like horribly disfigured snowflakes.

“Fuck.” Whispering under my breath, I spun in a circle and stared down on what used to be my gallery. Scraping distraught fingers over my scalp, I tugged at the roots of my hair, pulling it tight.

Holy shit. . . This can't be happening!

Why?

Why me?

Why like this?

The room became blurry and warped as tears bubbled over the surface of my eyes. Blinking, a rush of water streamed down my cheeks as my arms hung lifelessly by my sides.

Shock, that was the only word I could use to describe what I felt. Complete and total shock. Every inch of my skin was tingling, growing warmer and warmer as traumatized adrenaline purged my veins.

My gallery had been destroyed; completely fucking ruined, brought back down to bare bones and dust.

Standing in the midst of debris and destruction, my eyes continued to bleed with tears and my heart broke in half. I couldn't stop, no amount of wiping and sniffling could stifle the raindrops pouring off my face.

It's all gone. . . All of it. What the hell am I going to do?

Years of hard work had been erased in an instant. Every single painting, every single image that I created with the stroke of a brush had been torn apart as if they meant nothing.

But they meant something to me. . . They meant everything to me.

I can't believe this is happening.

My brain scrambled with a million thoughts, all of them running and scattering out like tiny bugs from under a rock.

Dropping my bag to the floor, I crouched down, and braided my fingers together. I couldn't stand anymore as my legs shook, weakening beneath me, and causing the room to sway.

The walls appeared to bow out, the ground felt like a rolling wave, raising up high and crashing hard, dragging me into the depths with the undertow.

Clutching my stomach, vomit sat in the back of my throat, threatening to mix with the scattered canvases and broken frames. Digging the tips of my fingers into the floor, I tried to steady the spinning world around me.

All my paintings are gone.

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