I'll Kill for Rain
by Phillip Smith
It’s six o’clock. I set up the blue camp chair and sit. The sun beats down on the soccer field. I’ve walked my dog; I’ve called my wife and left a message; I’ve done my exercises. The ledger adds up.
Right now, it’s a hundred and two degrees. The grass crunched when I walked on it. We haven’t had a drop of rain in three weeks. I mowed my grass last week just to knock down the weeds.
I set the pistol on my crotch. I feel the heat radiating off it. How I got it, I don’t remember, but I have it now.
Before coming here, I went to the pharmacy. I picked up three scripts: anxiety, depression, and something for both. I hadn’t taken them the past three weeks because I couldn’t pay.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see a blade of grass move until it’s in front of me. It’s a praying mantis, camouflaged brown, in the middle of a scorched soccer field. I swear I can hear the snap of grass-stalks as it walks. I lean forward to get a closer look. Its head turns one hundred and eighty degrees. It stares to see if I’m a threat and turns back to its trek across the huge expanse.
I’m sweating as everything is rotting under the unbearable sun.
Up in the sky are the beginnings of thunder clouds: small, white puffs with flat bottoms. No use to anyone now.
So far, I’ve been invisible. A police car drives through the park, and I hold my breath. I hold the gun to my temple. I pull the hammer back with my thumb. The barrel is so hot. After a moment, I ease the hammer down and place it back in my lap.
Still, I don’t remember where or when I got the pistol. Maybe there is more than depression and anxiety pulsing through my head.
A large cloud crackles with lightning. It’s hundreds of miles away and headed northeast.
Tired of the sky, I look closely at the field. The brown and yellow grass starts to sway, spilling to the right and the left like seawater over sand. I watch intently, hoping it’s not my mind playing tricks on my eyes. I blink, and the grass is back like it was: dry and crunchy.
I hold the pistol up to my head, and this time I don’t pull back the hammer. Did I even load it? I set the gun back in my lap.
A crow lands yards from me, tastes the grass, and returns to the sky.
My phone buzzes and buzzes and buzzes. I see it’s my wife. It goes to voice mail.
Before I came out to the field, I received emails promising a lower mortgage rate, cheap hotel rooms, and a low-cost dating service. I deleted them.
The grass is so dry and hot that I could start a fire if I just rub my feet on the turf long enough. That would be something: a pile of ash, a gun, a melted camp chair, a pair of shoes.
A breeze begins at my back, giving me goose bumps, but just blowing more heat my way.
They always say the third time’s the charm, so I put the gun to my head. I pull back the hammer. I close my eyes.
Before I decided to sit here with this gun, I had taken a long look in the mirror. I saw an old man with bloodshot, wet eyes. I’m only 40.
I turn my head to the sky. A cool rain pelts my face.
Right now, it’s a hundred and two degrees. The grass crunched when I walked on it. We haven’t had a drop of rain in three weeks. I mowed my grass last week just to knock down the weeds.
I set the pistol on my crotch. I feel the heat radiating off it. How I got it, I don’t remember, but I have it now.
Before coming here, I went to the pharmacy. I picked up three scripts: anxiety, depression, and something for both. I hadn’t taken them the past three weeks because I couldn’t pay.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see a blade of grass move until it’s in front of me. It’s a praying mantis, camouflaged brown, in the middle of a scorched soccer field. I swear I can hear the snap of grass-stalks as it walks. I lean forward to get a closer look. Its head turns one hundred and eighty degrees. It stares to see if I’m a threat and turns back to its trek across the huge expanse.
I’m sweating as everything is rotting under the unbearable sun.
Up in the sky are the beginnings of thunder clouds: small, white puffs with flat bottoms. No use to anyone now.
So far, I’ve been invisible. A police car drives through the park, and I hold my breath. I hold the gun to my temple. I pull the hammer back with my thumb. The barrel is so hot. After a moment, I ease the hammer down and place it back in my lap.
Still, I don’t remember where or when I got the pistol. Maybe there is more than depression and anxiety pulsing through my head.
A large cloud crackles with lightning. It’s hundreds of miles away and headed northeast.
Tired of the sky, I look closely at the field. The brown and yellow grass starts to sway, spilling to the right and the left like seawater over sand. I watch intently, hoping it’s not my mind playing tricks on my eyes. I blink, and the grass is back like it was: dry and crunchy.
I hold the pistol up to my head, and this time I don’t pull back the hammer. Did I even load it? I set the gun back in my lap.
A crow lands yards from me, tastes the grass, and returns to the sky.
My phone buzzes and buzzes and buzzes. I see it’s my wife. It goes to voice mail.
Before I came out to the field, I received emails promising a lower mortgage rate, cheap hotel rooms, and a low-cost dating service. I deleted them.
The grass is so dry and hot that I could start a fire if I just rub my feet on the turf long enough. That would be something: a pile of ash, a gun, a melted camp chair, a pair of shoes.
A breeze begins at my back, giving me goose bumps, but just blowing more heat my way.
They always say the third time’s the charm, so I put the gun to my head. I pull back the hammer. I close my eyes.
Before I decided to sit here with this gun, I had taken a long look in the mirror. I saw an old man with bloodshot, wet eyes. I’m only 40.
I turn my head to the sky. A cool rain pelts my face.
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Phillip Smith's short story “The Meek Inherit” was published online by Jake Magazine in August 2005, and his stage adaptation of Stephen King’s novella Rage was produced in the spring of 1993. During his senior year at the University of Evansville, he was awarded with the William H. Gumberts Award for Fiction.
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