He stood at the door, staring out the window into the back yard, seeing nothing. The rain was coming down hard, straight down, with no breeze, like it was determined to be there.
The yard was in the lush stages.. not weedy.. but on the verge of being overgrown and the rain seemed to be determined to make it that way.
Time was slipping into the future and he knew it. He just wasn't sure how to proceed.
He sighed. Perhaps to acknowledge the place in which he found himself or perhaps to comfort his blank mind. The grey and hushing sound of the rain on the roof was an insistant reminder of where he was.
Lost.
His soul was desolate. Black inside. His outside appearance was ordinary. Not worth noticing in a crowd. He was like an apple left to long on the shelf... red outside and rotten inside.
He opened the door as if to go out. He wanted to check the flowers. That was where the bodies were and he was troubled by them on this determined rainy day.
He'd never meant for it to happen. Well, perhaps he did: these are, or were, people who had no right to do the things they had done. He didn't see them as people so much as things taking up space on an all too crowded planet.
He left the door shut and stared at the roses, bent and cowered by the rain. They were his favourite roses, the bright pink, lively blooms that covered so much death. And here they were now disturbed.
He smiled.
There was a knock at the front door. He turned away from the garden and the rain and walked down the dark hallway from the kitchen. The whole house was dark: dark like clouds outside, dark like the heavy old wooden doors in the hall, dark like the thoughts in his head.
He opened the door to find Allison, shaking out the rain from her umbrella.
"Ally?! What are you doing out on a day like this?"
Allison stopped and gave him a sideways glance.
"Well, that's a nice greeting for a soaking wet woman on your porch, Peter. Are you going to invite me in? Or shall I start growing moss off me right here?" She laughed. He had always loved her laugh. It reminded him of the roses - bright and smiling.
He moved over to give her room to come in. She stood her umbrella on the floor and turned to him. She frowned as she noticed the strange look on his face.
"What sort of look is that?" She asked irritably. "can I borrow a towel? That rain is wet!"
Peter hesitated for a second then got a towel from the linen closet. His mood was improving slightly and the dark clouds were beginning to lighten up. He glanced out the window at the rain, then turned to her.
"How about some hot tea. or coffee, Ally?" He asked. "I think I need a cup of something hot."
"Sure, I'll have whatever you are having. I came by to talk to you, so I'll collect my thoughts while you get some cups."
He returned to the kitchen and started the kettle on the stove. It was an old kettle, his grandmother's the kind with the whistle that invariably dripped when he poured the water out.
"What brought you here, Ally? I thought you had work in town?"
She stared blankly at him.
It's Sunday, Peter. Do I have to work every day of the week?"
Peter smiled and glanced out the back door to the garden. The roses were still bent, struggling against the rain.
Ally walked to the back door and looked into the garden. She folded her arms across her chest and sighed.
"What's Foster doing?" she said peering toward the roses.
"What?" Peter asked as the kettle started to boil, spewing steam and dripping water from the spout.
"He's certainly interested in the garden right now. He's digging around the roses."
Peter raced to the back door and opened it.
"Foster! Come in!" he shouted angrily.
Foster, the terrier ruffed himself the way dogs do and with his head and tail lowered, sauntered slowly through the rain and into the kitchen, shaking himself when he was inside. Then as though nothing had happened, he wandered into the living room and plunked himself in the corner with his blanket.
Allison laughed when Foster had drenched the kitchen floor. The place smelled like wet dog now.
Peter was not smiling.
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