The drops crashed against the floor like Kamikazes fleeing from an unjust life towards a freedom they were never allowed to have. It wasn't that the rain bothered him, but the umbrella he carried served to cover his face, which although he had never seen, he would undoubtedly recognize instantly. As an escort, he only had the old mourning suit he had inherited from his mother and had chosen to wear for that occasion for obvious reasons.
At his feet were some thick boots so as not to let the dampness of the streets get the best of him, he had already suffered enough betrayals throughout his whole life, if indeed his life itself originated from one. Under his thick vest, he hid a long-standing reproach that, apparently, he had also inherited from his unfortunate mother. Upon seeing him leave the bar where she had been following him every Wednesday for the past two weeks, she dropped the umbrella and, after shouting "Dad," she pulled the trigger, filling him with new routes through which the rain seeped in.
Translated and formatted with Hive Translator by @noakmilo.