Normalerweise wenn ich schreibe, schreibe ich Gedichte... Hier ist aber der Anfang einer Geschichte - Meinungen sind mehr als Willkommen...
Chris
She was late. She had overslept again that morning and feared the worst. Rushing into her small bathroom she pulled of her nightshirt and stepped into the small shower. The large metal knobs, stiff from decades of limescale, gave way grudgingly to her efforts. An involuntary gasp escaped her as she was dowsed in cold water which slowly turned lukewarm but would not get any warmer. Shivering she stepped out of the shower and scurried barefoot across the carpet that had at one time been a richly adorned work of Russian elegance, but was now threadbare and neglected. Dripping sorry droplets back to her room she quickly towelled herself dry and pulled on her work clothes. With a quick glance at the clock she rushed to the door and dashed out onto the corridor, slamming the door rather too loudly in her haste. She descended the flight of steps leading from her apartment taking them three at a time and burst out of the house into the still-slumbering world.
The heat was oppressive despite the early morning and the city lay smothered by clouds of deep smoky grey in a pall of impending rain. She briefly thought about returning for her umbrella, but reminding herself of the time, thought better of it and hurried off. It was still early and her footsteps echoed in the empty narrow street bouncing back and forth between the high red brick buildings which leant drunkenly in on the narrow space between. In the distance the sounds of the city awakening, a dull groan of tediousness, vied with the much closer sounds of a dog barking and a lone bird calling out hopefully.
A fat, lethargic drop of water hit her forehead and made its way down her face, tracing the contours of her nose. Another ponderous drop smashed onto the asphalt in front of her. Instinctively she tried to evade the raindrops which followed their cousins in their suicidal plummet earthwards. Weaving in and out, she twisted down the street her feet tracing a shamanistic rain dance-like pattern. Soon however she gave up as more and more raindrops slammed into her, turning patches of her white blouse into greyish, transparent windows onto her skin below.
After a few minutes the vanguard of raindrops had given way to the full might the clouds had to offer. The rain now was so heavy that it was almost impossible to see more than a couple of meters ahead. The world had been reduced to a grey haze. Thoroughly drenched she continued to battle on through the solid wall of water.
Halfway down the street she stopped before the entrance to an ally. The rain, diverted by a broken gutter that was flailing wildly with the torrents of water it was channelling, formed a curtain of water across the entrance. Taking a breath she stepped through, breaking the sheet of water into a myriad of glittering streams and droplets. Hurrying down the alley she passed the familiar scrawls of graffiti adorning the walls leaning above her. Although the alley was somewhat sheltered, the grey-blue monotony had managed to soak into this side street, redrafting the normally gaudy graffiti in drab shades of grey.
She emerged from the alley into one the city's main streets and stood for a moment tottering under the combined weight of uncountable raindrops. She glanced at her watch. It was three minutes to nine. Surprisingly she had made good time and with renewed hope she moved off down the wide boulevard. On sunny afternoons this street was populated by couples holding hands and the sounds of competing street musicians, but now it was deserted but for a city cleaner trudging along, the rain rebounding violently from his shapeless black hat, forming a halo of droplets.
Towards the end of the boulevard she turned left to enter the side street where the office building in which she worked was obscured by a grey curtain of rain. Ahead of her she saw another figure scurrying towards her. A small person wearing a grey knee-length skirt and a white blouse and hugging a bag tightly, trying in vain to protect it from the deluge. Through the rain she saw the small figure stop and peer at her, its face plastered with strands of brown hair. With a shock she realized that she was looking at herself – mirrored in a highly polished shop window.
As she approached her work she realised that she had made it. A nearby church bell tolled the hour as she reached the steps to the old building, its late nineteenth-century facade at odds with the side wall of bare brown bricks exposed by an alley on one side. The rain seemed to have lessened slightly and a bit of colour returned to the world as, panting slightly, she climbed the stairs and reached for the doorbell. Before she could press the small brass button however, the door swung open.
Standing in the doorway, just out of reach of the still-spattering raindrops, Mr. Hallings, the personnel manager barred her way. He was young, no older than 35, handsome with short hair and cut a good figure in a navy blue suit. His eyes swept the bedraggled figure in front of him lingering on her wet blouse. A nasty smile flickered across his face. "Miss Taylor, you are not welcome here anymore"
"But I'm not late"
"That is irrelevant now - they know everything"
"Everything?"
"Everything." He handed her a small box which she saw contained a few of her personal belongings. "Goodbye" he said and shut the door. She stood on the steps not knowing what to do. The rain fell heavily again and stumbling she felt herself washed way.
Und ich hätte nicht gedacht, daß man Regen derart ausführlich und doch immer wieder neu beschreiben kann.