Its a stormy day. What happens?
Ominous clouds shrouded the skies, discharging a flurry of icy rainwater from its gaping mouth. Beneath this heavenly rage I stood; a puny mortal in the face of the wrath of the gods. As I gazed, the huge funnel of debris-a tornado-ripped its way through the storm-ravaged earth, tearing apart structures worth billions of Euros. Cattle residing in shabby shelters were conceded to the fury of this spinning horror by cruel and unjust owners. I could only watch forlornly at a storm chaser’s minivan fighting its way through the wind towards this monster, knowing what fate would befell them had they one blunder in their carefully laid out plans, knowing that I had betrayed the group; by fearing for my life. With a prolonged shiver, I made my way to the relatively safe society that I resided in.
The stomping of my rain boots seemed miniscule in noise compared to the battle that was undertaking outside. My building was well out of the reach of the tornado, yet my heart experienced a flutter of uncertainty deep within. The fact that tornadoes could divert their path rapidly, destroying residential buildings without hesitation was well known. A tornado was blind to the death and destruction it caused, relentlessly tearing apart mansions constructed with years of effort and money as it would for an unoccupied slum. A tinted window had shattered, spraying the building’s marble staircase with fragments of dagger-like glass shards. The elevator had been powered off since the society head expected no one to abandon their residence at such a time of mortal peril. With a great sigh, I carefully picked my path around the aggregate of diminutive glinting fragments, painstakingly assuring myself that I would not accidentally lay a foot on any of them. Scaling the staircase was tedious for me; one, you might say, who had been horribly spoilt by the luxuries technology has contrived.
At last, I rested both of my weary, high-heeled feet upon the somehow gratifying wood of the thirteenth floor; the floor in which I possess a penthouse. As I struggled to drag myself to my house, 1301, my heart stopped for a second. I whipped around, mind busy in circumspection for any signs of danger. No one stood behind me, nor could I see anyone who lay in concealment. I cocked one ear, listening intently. There. It came again, indisputably from my house. As I took a step nearer, I was greeted with a click and the radiance from the light of my living room shone through a crack near the bottom of the door. Something quite unwanted was inside.
My mind frantically searched for all the possibilities of who could be inside; from the most common conception to ones of remote possibilities. There could be a burglar inside. Yes. That’s it. A natural calamity would be a capital time to loot the possessions of another civilian, considering the fact that they had already evacuated. My fingers automatically searched for my BlackBerry, touching the number for the police. Right now would be the best time to threaten the robber with a call to the police. I released my hold on my sensible side, unlocked the door, and forced it open.
The light flooded into the floor lobby, irritating my eyes till they started to water. Ignorant of this biological incident, I fingered my phone gingerly. There was an extremely high possibility that the man inside had a gun of some sort, since they generally swindle in that manner. As all of my neighbors and fellow residents had already departed their flat, he may have concluded that I had performed the same action, so he might not be carrying ammunition. I shuddered, and barged into my house.
A man with graying, curly hair had his back to me. He was wearing an ancient raincoat colored red that was wet. His legs were covered with wooly pajamas, and his feet with red rain boots. From the back, he seemed like a tired, old man who had walked in the rain and then retired to his home. I could have believed the idea, but merely if it were not my house.
At last he turned around. He looked at me for a second, and then smiled mischievously. Shock, amazement, and blissfulness threatened to overflow all of my senses at once. My ability to move shut down immediately. Through this emotional monarchy, I squeaked only one syllable:
“You?”
“Well, that’s not the best greeting I ever got from you, Jane.”My dad said.
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