5 AM. ‘A good night’s sleep? Merely a memory,’ the young boy thought while trying to scratch his upper back. His left hand reached out to the other side of the bed, searching for something that wasn’t there. He dragged himself out of bed to open the balcony door. ‘Fresh air, I need fresh air.’ The thunderstorm was what had kept him up all night. He had never gotten over them, traumatised since early childhood. And the rashes, those damn rashes. He had never gotten rid of them either. ‘Will I ever get over this,’ he whispered to himself, staring at the empty bed.
There he was. The old man. Sitting on the bench, with his book. The air still humid despite the rain that had been pouring down during the night. A new storm making it’s way in. The old man looked up. He placed the book in his pocket and moved to the left as soon as he saw him. His eyes gazing at the the dark clouds coming in. ‘It will most probably be here within an hour or so.’ ‘It kept me up all night,’ the young boy said, scratching his right leg. ‘After storm there’s always rainbow.’ The old man took a glimpse at his leg. ‘Mosquitos?’ ‘No, rashes. Kept me up all night.’ The young boy looked down at his once white converses. He usually didn’t have problems this time of the year. Now he could barely sit still, even though every cell in his body was aching.
They could hear the thunder from far away. The young boy scratched his forearm, a tender breeze brushed his cheek. In just seconds the wind got stronger. ‘It hurts. It hurts so bad. When does it stop?’ The old man looked aside. ‘If it was love, then never.’