Writing When I’m Angry

As he lay on the wet, muddy ground, Alair could think of nothing more than how badly he wished the rain would wash him away. He wished for the water around him to rise and to be swept in a vast, fast-moving current that led to nowhere in particular, anywhere but here. The rain pelted the bare skin on his arms, neck, and face, each drop hitting with enough force to cause a small stinging sensation for a moment or two. Though there were hundreds of drops, thousands, millions, Alair felt that each one must have represented something he had done wrong in his life—evil deeds, sins of omission, imperfections at work and school, the things he had taken for granted—as each raindrop reached his skin, Alair’s depression sunk deeper and deeper.