Diana Valentine Arias

Clarence opens his eyes.

            The December air claws at his eyelids, seeking refuge from the cold. He sputters and coughs, and his breath flows upwards. Keeping his eyes from slipping shut proves to be harder than it was to open them. Something— although he’s not sure if it’s his subconscious, God, or something else entirely— is begging him to let them close. Instead, he focuses on the stars.

            A moment ago, the sky was blanketed by storm clouds. Lightning shattered the sky into pieces, and rain poured from the heavens like a flood. Now, there’s not a cloud in the sky, and the rain has subsided. The air is still dewy, though, and the trees continue to sway with the wind.

            Clarence can’t feel much of anything. His skin tingles. It’s the same feeling that you get when you sit wrong for just a little too long, except he feels it all over. Each of his attempts to raise a hand to touch his face are futile. It must be the rain drenching his clothes, or the cold soaking into his skin.

            He can hear something in the distance. Aside from the cold and the stars, he can’t focus on anything else. It’s growing louder, but it’s gradual. The noise is shrill. It winds and curves like the old road he’d just been driving on. Sirens. He can’t remember where he was before this moment.

            In an instant, the pins and needles in his skin are gone. His fingers twitch, and his throat itches. There’s a metallic taste in his mouth. It’s clinging to the backs of his teeth. Something is crawling down his face. Everything it touches burns hot. It’s blinding. It climbs down his chest, and it spreads to his arms and legs. His clothes are soaked. His body is so wet. The rain is coming down harder than it was before.

            There isn’t any rain.