The Wretched Storm

• Short story

								
The wicked clouds swirled together in the dark evening sky. John hurried down the steep dusty steps of the storm cellar. In John's arms was David, his sickly son. As the rain pours down onto the unfortunate pair, David sleeps in the comforting arms of his father. Once at the bottom of the steps, John lays David on a small cot. He hurries back up the stairs to lock the cellar door. As John lights a candle, his back to his son, His son awakes. 
“Father, when will the storm pass?” David says through racking coughs. John turns around to his son, his face painted with worry.
“Hopefully soon my dear boy, hopefully soon” As he sits in a chair beside the cot.
The son buries his face into his elbow to cough again, his coughs only getting more and more grisly. Days pass, but the storm, nor David's sickness does not. As the boy got sicker, the rain poured harder, the lightning got brighter, and the thunder roared louder. John could not fathom sleeping, knowing his son could perish at any moment. This restless routine drove John mad, but he could not let his son see that part of him. John, having only moved to get food for himself and David, and to use the bathroom in a bucket in the corner of a room. He felt utmost fatigue, as did his son. With no medicine in the cellar, David's illness only got worse. John knew this, but there was simply nothing he could do, aside from watch him suffer. After restless days, John unwittingly fell asleep. Once he awoke, he had truly realized how appalling this mistake was. The good news is the storm has finally passed. That only meant he had to carry David's lifeless body up those steep dusty steps. Water was no longer coming from the sky, but now only from John's eyes.
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