Ich Will

The rain had unleashed its full fury, as if setting the standard for all downpours to come this year. It transformed into a true deluge, mercilessly lashing the few trees that had just begun greening. In just one minute, I counted five or six lightning strikes. Thunder roared incessantly. And this wall of water, driven by gale-force winds, was crashing down on my head too.

Yes, while people scattered into doorways and stairwells, desperate to escape nature’s tantrum, I kept walking forward, unfazed.

Steady steps, straight back, even breathing. Just don’t flinch as the streams trickle down your collar. I don’t want to run. My backpack is sealed tight. My suit? To hell with it… it’ll dry. A little shower won’t make me sick, right? Storms like this don’t come often. I want to seize every moment of it — every raindrop, every lightning flash, every gust of wind. We so rarely surrender ourselves completely to anything. Right now, I want to lie down on the asphalt.

To become part of this flow, dissolve without a trace. Turn into nothingness, into mist, and race through the streets. Or fall from the sky, swaying under the wind’s pressure. Shatter into droplets and merge into a stream. First, you’re alone. Then you’re many. Then even more —yet you’re alone again.

To become part of a vast puddle, lingering here until the sun evaporates it — and you along with it. But sometimes, even the sun is powerless. Even its entire empire is helpless against a newborn river. Filthy and untamed, it surges down the streets, sweeping away trash, washing dust and grime from the asphalt. And you— right in the center of this elemental mob, which will leave behind even more mud and gloom. To hell with the mud. To hell with the gloom. We’re a crowd, remember?

The only true, alternative, dissenting, willful, knowing, perceptive one — you who despise crowds and herd mentality — have you never wanted to be part of it? A multitude of tiny consciousnesses merging into one vast mind, where each remains themselves yet also becomes a cell of us.

I finally noticed I was standing motionless, head bowed under the torrent. I shuddered violently and shook my head. Soaked to the bone, with almost nothing left to lose. Just twenty meters to cross the road, then a couple more minutes home. Near the crossing stood a store, and I decided to duck in. The usual: a two-liter bottle of Coke and a chocolate bar. Great for stimulating brain activity, by the way. The money in my pocket was damp but still usable. The cashier just shook her head, eyeing my rain-flattened hair and the streams dripping from my suit.

I stuffed my purchases into my backpack (miraculously dry inside), pushed the door — its bell jingling — and stepped back into the rain, which hadn’t eased during my pause. The road had become a river, flowing downhill on the slight incline.

The water level now reached past my ankles, creeping toward mid-calf. No point tiptoeing — my legs, shoes, and socks were already drenched — so I waded straight through.

Just a little farther, as long as I didn’t get completely filthy— the asphalt ended soon, and reaching my building would depend solely on my agility.

The final stretch became a game of hopping on half-submerged stones, darting along curbs, and balancing on wobbly planks. Nearly spotless, though cleanliness was the least of my concerns now. I fished the keys from my left jacket pocket and pressed one into the dimple of the building’s iron door. It beeped and clicked open.

Inside, compared to the street, it was relatively dry — but the air reeked of basement damp. I took the elevator to the sixth floor, approached another iron door, inserted the key, and turned. It resisted. So someone was home.

I rang the bell. Footsteps approached, and the inner door opened.

What did I want?

"Who is it?" — Batya’s voice. Sober as glass this time, and yet—

Definitely not what I wanted.