Quīndecim

The clouds are an angry grey, the color of wet ash, as they stretch across the early autumn sky. I had decided to make my way home from school that afternoon after I had declined a ride from both Brock and Ronnie insisting that I just needed the fresh air. Truthfully, I just needed some time to myself to think. The rollercoaster that my life has become in recent months has given me the kind of whiplash that a girl can't ignore.

With each step I take, the wind seems to whip more furiously and the scent of rain fills the air only a fraction of a second before it begins falling in a soft shiatsu as I pull the hood of my jacket over my head to shield my face from the rain-- but I am forced to admit that each drop feels like release as it makes a connection against my body. It feels cleansing.

The other night when Poe had shown me a few protective spells after Oakley tried to fucking stab me, she had also mentioned that aside from the phases of the moon, our powers can also wax and wane along with the weather. Electrical storms seem to give us more strength while sunny days are the opposite. I glance up, taking note of the way the lightning dances across the sky, indicating to me that my powers are likely at their peak.

When I get to my street, instead of taking a right, I take a left, moving toward a field that has laid unoccupied for years, It's tucked inside a mid-income neighborhood and has been the home of pumpkin patches or Christmas tree lots over the past few seasons. Last summer someone in the community had paid to rent out bounce houses for to fill the area as the rest of the neighborhood brought side dishes for a barbeque. As of now, it lies dormant. Its tall dead grass is littered with small fragments of trash, all of which are being stirred by the wind, brushing it across the landscape in thick brushstrokes.

I wore black leather booties with a kitten heel today. The leather climbs up the outside of my torn skinny jeans in that way \all girls wear boots in the autumn. The downside of my footwear choice is that they seem to dig into the wet earth with each step I take, but I pay that slight inconvenience little mind. No one can really see me here, and I am grateful for the break from prying eyes and fake smiles that have plagued me of late. People want pieces of both halves of my personality. They take, and take, but what's left for me? What's left OF me?

I close my eyes a moment and let my sense of smell drink up the petrichor while the soft sounds of raindrops hitting the surrounding dirt keep me grounded. Letting my backpack hit the dirt, I peel my hood back from my head, increasing my vision as well as the points of contact from each drop of rain, relishing in each small splash of raindrops as they burst against my skin. Pouring life down on me.

I let my eyes fall closed as I feel the rhythm of the storm. Both the thunder and the lightning are strong enough that standing in this position should be frightening. The field is vast and open, but I'm confident in my safety. This storm speaks to me in a way that I can't explain.

My breath is drawn intentionally slowly; in and then out. I'm working to center myself the way I've been practicing in my mediations-- each time it seems easier to the point that it almost comes naturally, unbidden, and invigoratingly. It only takes about thirty seconds to get my brain into the best possible frequency.

Looking ahead, I focus on the sheet of rain falling straight ahead of me. Focusing my mind,I move to push it to either side, like a curtain of a momentous stage on opening night. Drop by drop, it obeys, creating a small port in the storm. I maneuver myself through it with a small breathy laugh. I had been working on my telekinetic abilities, but I'm somehow still surprising myself with the possibilities of my powers. If what I've heard and read is true, this is only the tip of the iceberg.

Focusing on the palm of my hand, I bring a ball of flame to life inside it with ease. It hovers right above the skin of my palm, not close enough to char my flesh but the heat from the flame is unmistakable. I let it simmer out, not wanting to accidentally set this dead field on fire. It's so dry it would spread to the surrounding homes in a flash.

I turn my focus to the ground about a hundred feet in front of me. With the flick of my wrist, I cause it to erupt as though a land mine was inadvertently triggered-- but without the blast, and considerably quieter. I do it again and again, laughing as the wet soil rains back down to the earth.

"Holy shit," I laugh out before letting the curtain of rain resume its previous pattern, enjoying the feel of the thrum of nature as the cool drops hit my face. I turn my face toward the heavens and embrace its caress.

Leaving the field, I head toward my house. By the time I let my first footfall hit the sidewalk that spans the circumference of my home, I'm completely drenched, but I don't mind. In fact, I find an odd comfort in it. I suppose I'm still human if I can feel the cold of the rain and the wind as it licks against my warm flesh.

I notice that my Dad's slate grey Harley is sitting in the driveway looking no worse for wear. What was once red flames has been changed to purple ghost flames trailing back toward the seat. The chrome has been refinished and buffed to a high shine. Crossing the lawn, I find myself beside it and reverently run my hands along the handlebars before wicking the dots of rain away from the gas tank. You wouldn't even know that it was in an accident. Even in the rain, she looks as beautiful as ever.

When I open the door to the house I can immediately hear voices echoing through the halls. Finding my way to the kitchen I find Law and Ramsay standing at the island with cups of coffee in hand. Law's eyes regard me immediately. "You're fucking drenched, Sunday. God, you're going to get a cold."

I roll my eyes. "I would think that a Harvard-educated woman such as yourself would know that is a misnomer."

She scoffs. "Nevertheless, go get changed. Uncle Ramsay is going to have dinner with us tonight. I'm making tacos."

I nod, walking over and giving my uncle a secret handshake that we've developed over the years before a demure smile crosses my lips. "You fixed Dad's bike."

"It's your bike, now. Your dad would have wanted it to be that way. Plus, Law has a car."

Chuffing out a laugh, Law puts her hands up in surrender. "Like I would want to ride that death trap anyway. Bikes and cars were always you and Dad's thing. I never cared for them aside from being a method of transportation."

I grin remembering the one time that she tried to help dad work on a car. The look in her eyes when her hands were covered in grease was one of disgust and contempt. That's when we knew she wasn't going to be a gearhead. Which is fine. There's only room in the family for two, anyway. Or one, now, it seems.

"Thank you so much. I would hug you, but.." I trail off, motioning to my wet clothes.

He nods. "I also left you a present up in your room. From me to you, little one."

I roll my eyes at the old nickname. I'm a senior in high school. He's doing to need to find a new thing. With a nod, I head off toward my room, taking the stairs quickly, reading to get out of these wet clothes. The moist fabric of my jeans pulls at the skin between my legs creating an extra level of discomfort.

Dropping my backpack to the floor, my eyes fly toward the only item on my bed that is out of place. It's a beautiful helmet with a silver bow on top. It's handpainted, adorned with white roses, the stems embellished with thorns that would pierce even the hardest skin painted to look more like the barbs on wire. It's perfect for me and my heart blooms with love at the knowledge that he took the time to paint this just for me.

I guess the reminder that I still have people that love me will help me live to fight another day.