The day passed in Tom's restless haze; The stars had fallen and risen again with Tom contained in his room all day. The wedding was tomorrow-- In less than 24 hours he would be married and his life would be completely solidified. Tom felt a crippling weight inside of him. It got worse with every second, every minute. It grew with the rain.
The pattering of rain had turned to pounding all day. The darkness had stayed all through dawn and through the afternoon, and it was as if there was no more sun. It blanketed the sky like it filled him.
Tom was doomed. He had doomed himself.
Night was starting. Rain continued hard on the roof. Tom could hear shuffling and creaking and the sound of pots and pans being taken out and placed on the flooring downstairs: they had leaks of rain somewhere in this old house.
Tom closed his eyes again, hearing it all.
The rain, fluttering and melting and turning in his ears.
Tom breathed in deeply, letting it flow through him. This was really it. A night of rain-it went quiet, silent for a beat, and Tom held his breath-a shock of thunder, struck like a match, resounding and echoing through town. And that was it-his last night of freedom, stuck in here. In this old house, waiting for it all to end. Tom opened his eyes.
Twigs and leaves and rain beat against his window. He got up from his bed, feeling and ignoring the fatigue in his legs, in his soul. He walked to his wardrobe and looked at the suit. At the neat, new, inky fabric: so perfect it didn't feel right being for him.
Tom sighed, running a hand along the outfit's jacket. It shouldn't be for him.
The rain continued harsher.
Tom held it in his hands, still, and turned. His feet padded against the cold floor as he approached his window. His room was dark, and he had to step slowly to avoid the trash around his room. The rain disorientated him, like it surrounded him even inside of his room. He pulled the small, thin curtain aside with his free hand, looking outside.
It was dark, so dark, and he couldn't see anything except for the thumping leaves and branches and rain against the dusty glass; the streetlamps were out, and the silent darkness left no room to see; The clouds covered the sky thickly.
Thunder continued, the sound pulling everything apart. Just by looking through the dark, Tom could feel how Alive it was out there. Wind shook the rain diagonally, towards the house then away, and thunder and lightning fizzed through the air. He wished he felt as lively as the storm. He wished he wasn't so exhausted.
Tom kept watching it, feeling the shake of the house, hearing the crushing rain, the tapping of the pans and pots catching water downstairs.
This was another moment of peace.
Tomorrow, his life was over. He wasn't sure if he would ever have love the way he wanted. He wasn't sure if Becky would ever be happy with him.
But tonight, right this moment, he could remember and hear and see and think.
Tom stood at his window for minutes, for longer. He held the suit loosely. He lost track in the swirl of water dripping down. Lost himself in the scratches of breaking trees. His eyes adjusted to the storm's dark.
Another moment, another hit of silence and then a push of thunder, and lightning lit his eyes.
One last split of quiet, and-
Something hit his window. So harshly it rattled, thumped. Tom pulled himself back, stumbling, falling, dropping the suit. Blinking quickly. The washing hush and restfulness was gone.
Tom stared for a moment at his window. Heat was in his bones. He got up from the ground, pulling his hand through his hair-- he couldn't see through the dark, and so brought himself back to look through the window again. He was at an angle, ready to lean back, ready to run and get Aunt Polly or a bucket or a knife, or just close the curtain and forget, forget-- he didn't know.
But this whole thing brought a pulsing shake to his ribs like the rain was in him, filling his lungs with its cold.
Thunder, lightning, twigs, rain, darkness. Cracking silence, and-- another flapping thud against the window. And away, and the rain echoed like a voice in his head. He couldn't see what it was-- Maybe a bat?
And the grey, small, fast thing hit against his window repeatedly-an empty flapping smack, like a something dropped into a bucket, like a hand slapping against glass- then it happened again.
It hit and hit, and it was too fast, and Tom could only watch as it streaked towards and away, panicked, hitting the window. Every time, he heard the slap. He felt the buzz in his hands at the quick anxious hurting repetition. It kept going, and Tom rushed closer to the window. He couldn't keep hearing the noise.
He turned the latches at the top of the frame-he heard the rushing noise of the thing again. It wanted to be let in.
Thunder and rain bared against the air but he needed the rushing noise to stop. He quickly, shakingly, reached to the bar at the bottom, pulling the window up. The frame struggled against the rain and the wind, and he couldn't get it open enough. Then with a pound the thing hit the window again, and Tom flinched back.
The rain had been going all day, pouring and dripping and soaking into the ground, but with every second, it just got harder. The rain, in the small section of window Tom had gotten open, streaked through into the room like it was glass, like it was metal, burning with its cold. Tom was about to close it again and move his suit out of the rain, having felt a chill and a strangeness about this whole thing. He moved his hands towards the frame-- and then the wind hissed and swirled and pooled in, slamming the old window up as open as it could get.
And the rain soaked him; and the wind made the curtains wild, flapping, dripping, crackling with every fluttering movement. Tom shielded his eyes from the sharp storm, his heart vibrating with adrenaline.
And then the thing flew in.
Squeaking and chirping and flapping its wet, small, strong wings-the noise was a sopping, rustling, uneven thing. The creature came to the ground with the rain, beating and shaking and thrashing against the air and the ground and the walls.
It hit against Tom's bookshelf, so hard it rocked, pushing loose a few books and journals. Thrashing with such a force it shouldn't have had. Tom thought it would tip the bookshelf. It felt like the air itself was shaking, vibrating in his throat.
It flew, and Tom watched it, bewildered. The violence, the harshness of it all. Thunder, rain, the splitting noise of a thrashing bird.
Until it finally calmed enough and it sat on the ground, hunched and small, rising and falling with its fragile angry vibrating breaths. He could see definitively that it was a bird. Tom realized what had just happened and, feeling rain soaking into his clothes and the floor and his suit, he turned. He rushed to the window, almost tripping against himself and the pooling water and the shock of it all, and leaned into the window, shoving it down with burning hands, clipping the latches closed again. He turned back to his room, seeing it so disheveled, so torn apart.
Tom looked at the bird. It heaved darkly on the ground, staying in the same place, its legs separated in a wide, dipped, rageful stance.
He listened for a moment to that deafening rain, to that thunder, to the drips downstairs. To the fear, the shock and bewilderment in his heartbeat. He couldn't hear the creak of steps or the opening and shutting of doors-no one must've noticed his commotion.
And now he had a bird in his room.
Tom was afraid to approach it.
The storm kept going, and it was like the clouds would never lose their rain.
He watched the bird, feeling the silence that filled everything after all that noise.
He kept his eyes on it as he walked towards the window again, partially scared of the thought of there being a possible other bird that could come into his room. And he picked up the suit, no other birds coming to hit against the window.
The dark fabric was drenched, and the spots where the rain had been were deepened in color. Hopefully it wouldn't shrink or wrinkle or fade-- Aunt Polly would be furious.
Tom glanced at the bird again. Still in the same spot. He looked away and walked slowly, carefully, laying the suit on his bed; hopefully it would dry before morning.
He heard a noise from the bird. A chirp, a rustling shake of feathers. Tom looked quickly over to the spot on the floor where it was.
It was puffed up, grooming itself. Tom took a step and it looked up warily, coughing angrily at him, then paused and continued its preening. Whatever had happened to it had passed- it was calmed, mostly. There were feathers on the ground, small and large, and Tom was surprised it wasn't bleeding or broken. It should've been, from what happened.
Tom stepped, shuffled, over to his bookshelf. A few feet from the bird, now, Tom sat down and looked at the books that had fallen to the ground.
One of them was the brown journal-Tom reached for it first, picking it up gingerly. He felt a worried depth in his stomach. A few small papers in it had been knocked loose and fallen out. The sketch of Huck had fallen out.
Tom's heart beat deeper, shakier. He picked up the drawing, turning it around to look at it. Relief flushed through him with its cold heat, seeing that it was fine. The other papers had blots of rain, but this one was completely dry. Tom looked at the bird again. Back to the drawing. He stacked the journals and books and papers and put most of them back on the shelf.
He put the drawing in his pants pocket and turned to the bird.