25
Rachel
In the night, it began to rain. I could count on three fingers the number of times I’d seen rain in January. The rain would make the way here impassable. He could not climb the tower in the wet. I would not see him. Having been alone all these years, I yearned, now, to see him.
What was it Shakespeare said—The course of true love never did run smooth.
I turned on the light and surveyed the room. I noticed the scissors Mama had gotten me, lying on my nightstand. I picked them up and tested the blades. Dull. Still, I could try.
I drew it quickly across my wrist.
A small amount of blood showed, seeping out.
The cut didn’t hurt enough to make me cry, but the thought of not seeing Wyatt did. I imagined that it would rain forever, that I would never see him, that I would always be alone.
Soon, a tear leaked from each eye.
I dabbed at them with my forefinger, then dabbed at the wound. It stung from the salt.
Then, it disappeared.