Raven
I hated storms. Rain on its own was fine. Comforting even. It pattered softly against the windows and sidewalks, steady and predictable. But storms — real ones, with thunder that cracked the sky open and lightening that split the dark — sent my body into survival mode before my brain could catch up.
It had been raining the day my parents died. Not just raining. Storming.
That fact lived in my bones, even if the rest of the memories didn't.
I sat behind the wheel of my car, hands trembling as thunder exploded overhead, the sound so sharp it felt like it punched straight through my chest. Lightening flashed, white-hot and blinding, and before I could stop myself, I screamed and threw my head back against the head rest.
My heart galloped. My breath came in shallow, useless burst
