Tried, and failed to write this a lot. Trying again.
Sarah had always loved the rain. She loved the way it cascaded down, an endless waterfall pouring from the sky. She loved how clean it was, erasing all of her problems and worries as it soaked her. She loved the repetitive sound of it beating down on the roof, making a song for her. But most of all she loved the color. When it rained, Sarah would stare up at the sky, ignoring the droplets that glanced off her face. The blue and the grey was beautiful to her, and it made her happy.
It is raining. It is night. Even without the color it stands to reason there should be a smile on Sarah's face, but there isn't. The rain makes it all a little easier but she is not smiling. She is crying. It is the worst night of her life.
He is angry. It is in the tight, clenched muscles in his face and on his arms. It is in the tone of his voice, which is loud and exasperated. It is in the twitch of his mouth, and the look in his eyes. None of this would make Sarah cry. In the times before he was ever angry with her, and there were a precious few, she stood her ground, eyes dry. But now she sits on their bed and soft tears are in her eyes and on her cheeks.
She has only cried twice in her adult life. At her parents funeral, whom had died within a week of each other, she wept into her brother's shoulder, tears falling into the black fabric. And then a few years later, at his deathbed. She had told herself to be strong for him, looking in the mirror before she went to see him, to be someone for him to hug and cry against. But even on the cot, mangled and twisted with disease as he was, he managed to be the strong one. The tears came as he said his last words, slipping away. He asked if she could try, for him, to make everything in the world a little brighter. Between sobs, she promised. And then he was gone.
Those times, she cried because of loss. Because it hurt. That's not why she's crying now. Even with cheeks wet with tears, her face is strong against the tempest of fury emanating from him. She can not show further weakness. Not now. He is shouting, screaming, but she can barely hear him. It doesn't matter. She already knows what she's going to do, going to say. On the bed, her small fist clenches a handful of blanket. The same blanket she lay on, crying out in ecstasy, less than an hour earlier. Anger is rising in her now, but she forces it down. Got to keep that in check. Unlike him.
"I still can't fucking believe it," he's saying, with a tone of complete incredulity. Like she was insane for doing what she did. Her anger rises higher. "Fucking ridiculous!" Like he wouldn't have done the exact same thing. It had taken her weeks after coming home to step outside, he surely would have been out long before that. She can't believe how he's acting, can't believe what he's saying. This is not the man she married. That man died in the crash.
"I thought you were gone," she says softly. Without malice. "I made my choices like you were gone." As she says that she shivers and her voice cracks. He sees this as fear towards that, like she was scared at the thought of him being gone. He thinks he can press on with no further resistance. He is wrong. She only trembled saying it because she realized something. Something horrible. She realized she wishes he was really gone.
Unaware of the subtlety, he pushes ahead violently, his words biting with venom and violence. "Someone like her, though? What the fuck where you thinking? I thought you knew better." This was the wrong thing to say. He has crossed the line. Her line.
"Fuck you!" she yells, standing, "Who the fuck do you think you are?" She can no longer contain it. Her anger is a wild animal, all teeth and claws. It's all coming out now. "The next fucking time you judge someone like that, so blindly, maybe you should fucking think just for a second, that there is somebody that loves them." She stares straight at him, no longer crying, and there is rage in her eyes like he has never seen. And now the truth lies out in the open, ugly and awkward. The ultimatum stated, the battlefield razed. He retreats into the kitchen silently, a dead look on his face. This is not the woman he married. That woman died in the crash.
Sarah stares at the doorway he left from, fury pouring from her eyes. She is unfocused, thrown off by her outburst. She didn't think she was going to tell him that. She thought it would maybe have been figured out and gone about easily, painlessly. No way for that now.
The phone rings, shattering her thoughts. Sarah steels herself the best she can. And picks up the phone.
This is what Peter hears from the kitchen. "Hello?" Shaky, but calm. "Oh. Rachel. Hi." He doesn't know who that is. Is that her? He feels the anger rising like bile, ready to take him again. Then he hears a gasp, so soft and so full of pain it rocks him. The anger leaves. He hears the phone crash against the floor, loud in the small apartment. He walks slowly to the bedroom. Sarah is laying on the bed, hugging herself and shaking, staring with eyes so empty she could have been dead.