It’s not rain falling; it’s the moisture being sucked up and away, taking all the vibrancy and colour with it.
They are standing here in the anti-rain, the leeching, sucking rain looking at one small slice of humanity’s clearly manifest right to not fucking be here. To not exist at all. This damns us all. That’s what she’s thinking.
The girl must be about ten. The mattress is old. The sort you’d get on some fold away camp bed. She’s been rolled in it and the whole thing has been secured with gaffer tape. One pale arm hangs out. She doesn’t believe its popped out of its makeshift cocoon. Rather it speaks of panic, of the frantic actions of someone who’s gone too far this time and finally succumb to a terrible urge.
She can see him now carrying it to their car or van, the pale arm flopping about, a give away to anyone who should happen upon them. The sweaty drive, every pair of headlights a potential police car waiting to find his illicit cargo. Then arriving here, rolling her into the mud and driving away. Mistake discarded. Tomorrow a new day.
For along time she just stares at that arm, the palm faced upwards to the clouds, like it’s imploring something, someone, anything.
Then her partner taps her on the shoulder, hands her coffee. Time to get to work.
Random word prompt: mattress. I always feel a need to apologise when I write something really grim, so apologies that’s not the cheeriest of tales. But then they can’t all be, can they?