Setting Rain on Fire
Chapter One: Beginning at the End
“I died a hundred times.”
~ Back to Black (Naya Rivera version)
I’ve never noticed how rhythmic the rain sounds when it’s falling. Right now, tapping against the material of the umbrella above my head, I can almost make out a beat. On any other day I might have smiled at myself at this small, silly discovery. I might have marveled in the comfort of a steady sound. I might have told Brittany that she was right about the world creating its own music, “just like August Rush.”
But not today.
My gaze absorbs the scene playing out. I feel like I’ve been shoved head-first into a black and white movie: everyone is in black, and the rain makes it difficult to identify any other color. Then again, it might just be me. It would be painfully fitting if all the color in my world faded away.
My eyes land on the casket being lowered into the ground before me, and I want to scream into the sky. Take me. I’m the one dead here. I’m dying right now, can’t you see? Why can’t it be me? I feel someone tighten their grip around my left hand. I inhale deeply and the scent of wet grass and upturned soil fills my lungs, along with the faint smell of Brittany’s perfume. On any other day that same smell would make me feel calm and reassured, but today it makes me feel even colder inside.
“San.” I hear her choke out from my left.
I turn my gaze to meet hers. Her cheeks are pale and shining with the tracks of her tears. I press my lips to her right cheek because I don’t know what else I can do, and I taste the salty liquid cascading downwards. For a few seconds I feel furious that she can cry while I can’t.
Then I feel Quinn nudge me gently from behind, and I take it as a cue to turn forward. Puck is standing in front of me uncovered, the rain soaking his rented suit. His face is grim as he holds out a shovel with his two hands.
Oh, right.
As I release Brittany’s hand and take the heavy shovel from Puck, I allow myself a small moment to feel revolted at the irony of it all. I can explain what I hear, what I see, what I touch, what I smell, and what I taste, but I can’t even begin to express how I feel as I toss the first layer of soil over my son’s coffin.
* * *
I’m raining.
There’s a raging hurricane inside me and the only signs of it are the tears that are racing down my face. It makes me feel like the rain falling around me are just tears that the sky is crying. Even the heavens can’t stand this pain.
Beyond my tears, everything is blurred and nothing is distinct: everything is just a mess of dark colors and shapes. My hand is cold and empty where Santana left it. Vaguely, I see her toss soil into the abyss where my son will sleep in forever. The soil seems to be suspended in air, rolling around, before landing with a light splat of finality on the wooden coffin. Santana says nothing.
Without looking at me, she holds the shovel out. But I just can’t. I can’t be cover up my son like this, I can’t stand to let the earth swallow him up. I can’t. I won’t.
So I back away from the shovel, a whimper bursting from my mouth involuntarily.
Santana does look at me then, and the look in her eyes frightens me. Just a few minutes earlier when she kissed my cheek, her eyes were pained and tortured, but now her eyes look dead and empty. But she seems to understand that I can’t do what she’s silently asking me to, so her gaze moves to the person behind me.
I feel Quinn’s hand on my shoulder, squeezing briefly, before she steps forward and takes the shovel from Santana. Then she gathers soil and gently hurls it into the hole.
I feel stupid, and weak, and heartbroken. And just as the soil from Quinn’s toss lands on the casket, thunder rumbles through the open sky, and I feel as though I’ve betrayed Nicholas.
“I died a hundred times.”
~ Back to Black (Naya Rivera version)
I’ve never noticed how rhythmic the rain sounds when it’s falling. Right now, tapping against the material of the umbrella above my head, I can almost make out a beat. On any other day I might have smiled at myself at this small, silly discovery. I might have marveled in the comfort of a steady sound. I might have told Brittany that she was right about the world creating its own music, “just like August Rush.”
But not today.
My gaze absorbs the scene playing out. I feel like I’ve been shoved head-first into a black and white movie: everyone is in black, and the rain makes it difficult to identify any other color. Then again, it might just be me. It would be painfully fitting if all the color in my world faded away.
My eyes land on the casket being lowered into the ground before me, and I want to scream into the sky. Take me. I’m the one dead here. I’m dying right now, can’t you see? Why can’t it be me? I feel someone tighten their grip around my left hand. I inhale deeply and the scent of wet grass and upturned soil fills my lungs, along with the faint smell of Brittany’s perfume. On any other day that same smell would make me feel calm and reassured, but today it makes me feel even colder inside.
“San.” I hear her choke out from my left.
I turn my gaze to meet hers. Her cheeks are pale and shining with the tracks of her tears. I press my lips to her right cheek because I don’t know what else I can do, and I taste the salty liquid cascading downwards. For a few seconds I feel furious that she can cry while I can’t.
Then I feel Quinn nudge me gently from behind, and I take it as a cue to turn forward. Puck is standing in front of me uncovered, the rain soaking his rented suit. His face is grim as he holds out a shovel with his two hands.
Oh, right.
As I release Brittany’s hand and take the heavy shovel from Puck, I allow myself a small moment to feel revolted at the irony of it all. I can explain what I hear, what I see, what I touch, what I smell, and what I taste, but I can’t even begin to express how I feel as I toss the first layer of soil over my son’s coffin.
* * *
I’m raining.
There’s a raging hurricane inside me and the only signs of it are the tears that are racing down my face. It makes me feel like the rain falling around me are just tears that the sky is crying. Even the heavens can’t stand this pain.
Beyond my tears, everything is blurred and nothing is distinct: everything is just a mess of dark colors and shapes. My hand is cold and empty where Santana left it. Vaguely, I see her toss soil into the abyss where my son will sleep in forever. The soil seems to be suspended in air, rolling around, before landing with a light splat of finality on the wooden coffin. Santana says nothing.
Without looking at me, she holds the shovel out. But I just can’t. I can’t be cover up my son like this, I can’t stand to let the earth swallow him up. I can’t. I won’t.
So I back away from the shovel, a whimper bursting from my mouth involuntarily.
Santana does look at me then, and the look in her eyes frightens me. Just a few minutes earlier when she kissed my cheek, her eyes were pained and tortured, but now her eyes look dead and empty. But she seems to understand that I can’t do what she’s silently asking me to, so her gaze moves to the person behind me.
I feel Quinn’s hand on my shoulder, squeezing briefly, before she steps forward and takes the shovel from Santana. Then she gathers soil and gently hurls it into the hole.
I feel stupid, and weak, and heartbroken. And just as the soil from Quinn’s toss lands on the casket, thunder rumbles through the open sky, and I feel as though I’ve betrayed Nicholas.