He had always liked the rain. It was mostly the sound, how natural it was, how if he sat on the porch steps until his legs went numb, it became a beautiful background noise, like when he played Clair de Lune on the Steinway until his mother saw red. The rain was a sweet drumming --  a lovely, tantalizing bicker that evaporated the world’s woe with its thrum. Now, specifically, wasn’t favorable, as it was only the gentle kind: hesitant but unashamed, innocently licking his skin with its velvety tongue. Then, as if it had successfully readied its powers in a deceiving period of calm, it came down on him; hard, silvery, and warm with anger, leaving the sky a milky blur. The rain cleaned him thoroughly, as if he had been scrubbed raw with soap. It needled him, punished him, smothered him with interminable weight. Then came the screaming. He felt himself go stiff, slowly losing control over his body, stripped from the feeling in his limbs. In that moment, the line between quiet and loud became incredibly obscure. The rain’s consistency softened its blow and yet did nothing to mitigate the screams, drumming upon his hair and skull as if orchestrating some awful symphony. He could find no origin of the screams. They were everywhere, pervading his mind like the plague and stretching every area of his scalp to fill every pore. His brain was invaded by incessant pushing that sounded like violin strings off tune. And yet, through his memory dripped small fragments of joy that fell with every drop of rain. The rain’s fleeting meekness had carried with it the same gentle nature of everytime he had touched the piano and heard sweetness. This was unforgettable, even when the screams ripped his mind, tore it apart as if the sky itself had extended its hands. He couldn't decipher what soothed his memory and what tormented his mind.

       He looked below to his shaking hands. The rain would have to do for the piano.