You lie on the bed, one side, the one under you, warm, the other side cold. It is raining. You hear the patter on the roof and the breeze blows through the open window. You are cold. You wish someone could hold you. The wrapper is not enough. You only have it because you mother gave you. It only protects from the mosquitoes. You walls are filled with dark spatters, bloodstains and dead mosquitoes.
There is no electric power, so you can't see your hands as you scratch your itching skin. The wind is intense. The tree by the door lashes against the agonising roof. You will cut it down when the rain stops before it tears the roof. You hear a bang. It is your room door dragged close by the wind. It blows hard and a spray of rain falls on your body. You get up. You close the window. The heat is quick and waiting. The mosquitoes are ready.
You can hear the wind whistling against the trees and the roof. You stand by the window and watch the rain batter the glass, the droplets frosting and unfrosting as you breathe against it. The world is a blur. You can't see a thing in the darkness. A lightning flashes and there, the flood rushing along, dragging any unanchored thing with it.
You feel thankful that you are not out in the weather. You wonder if she is home. You wonder if she is watching a flood pass her door as well. You wonder if she is curled under the duvet, in another lover's arms, listening to jazz or watching movies on Netflix. You wonder if she is even thinking of you as you think of her. You push her image out of your mind. What is done is done. There's no splitting hairs over it.
But it is hot and you are alone and there are mosquitoes quarreling near you. You turn then stop. A form wades through the flood, a battered umbrella over its head. You cannot make the face but you see the gown clinging to the body. The form stumbles and is almost swept away by the flood but it rights itself. Maybe this is a sign from God. You find your rainboots and raincoat. You open your door. You call out to the person. The world seems to hold its breath. It even seem like the sun is ready for one last shine before nightfall.
The person hears you. The person turns. They see your beckoning hand and quick as a bird, they rush towards you. It is a woman. She is wet. Her eyes are red with crying. Something had stabbed through her left foot. She needs help. You lead her back to your room. You show her the bathroom to get cleaned up. There is hot water from the kettle for a warm bath and a small pot of hot broth for her bones. You find your lover's old pyjamas. It is warm and dry. She is thankful and filled with relief.
You look at the jagged wound. The flood has washed off the blood. The flesh is white like chicken meat. You help her clean it. You help her press its edges with hot water. She squeezes your wrist hard trying to hold back the pain behind her throat. You smile even as your eyes water from the wound she is inflicting on you. You are happy. You are not alone.
The leg is as clean as possible. You spread your cloth on the cold floor. You tell the woman to take the bed. She smiles her thanks. She lies down. You lie down on the floor. You can smell your soap on her skin. You can feel the heat from her body. She speaks. She is telling you how she got lost in the rain. You hear nothing. You are dreaming of a life with her together. You dream of a wedding, she beautiful in white. You doze off with a smile on your face.
It is night. The world is silent. The rain is done. You open your eyes. A cold breeze is rushing over you. You turn to see your window open. You turn to find your bed empty. Where is your guest? Where is the woman you tended to? The bed is as if no one has slept on it. You get up and rush to the door but there are no signs of anyone leaving. You enter the bathroom and find no damp clothes drying on the line. You touch your soap but it is dry as if no one has used it since morning.
Something is wrong. Where did the woman go? Where is the battered umbrella? Where is the pyjamas? You rush to your wardrobe and the pyjamas is there, still scenting of your lover's favourite perfume. You rush to close the window and there, just by the sill is a wet footprint. It is coloured like blood. It is from a left foot. You look out but the ground is dry. There is no footprint in the humus. There is no water in the night.
You stare out, at the big white moon. You do not understand. It rained. There was a flood. There was an injured woman in your room. You talked to her and treated her wound. You go outside. You search everywhere but there is no footprint and everywhere is dry. As you return, you smell your neighbour outside. He is smoking as usual. He nods at you.
"It looks like it is going to rain this evening," he says.
You can only nod back, unable or unwilling to ask the question on your tongue. You look to the sky. The moon is gone. The clouds are there. The wind rises from the ground. You enter your room. You close the door. You stare at the window. You wonder if it was a dream. Lightning strikes. Your heart jumps to your lungs. The rain begins to fall. It falls hard. Everywhere is cold. Mosquitoes come out in droves. You move to close the window from the spray. You see a form with a broken umbrella struggling through the sudden flood. You almost scream.