You picked me up from my parent's house and drove me to the park that was in the fancy neighborhood overlooking the valley. It was raining. I sat in the passenger seat, pressed up against the window - as far away from you as I could be in a confined space. I thought about how this was only appropriate, because that was how you preferred me - confined, caged. Limited. You liked me limited.
You turned to me, all craft and guile and trickery. Like the goblins in Harry Potter. You asked me, what do you think about when it rains?
But this wasn't a simple question, this was a riddle. I knew it because you hated simple. You preferred long, drawn-out, painful and complicated with plenty of places to hide. The last thing you wanted from me was an honest answer. Our entire relationship had consisted of you lying to keep me around and me lying to keep you subdued. You were practically begging me right then, to just lie the way I used to. Just lie to me, lie to me, so nothing has to change.
With all of this in mind, I gave you the simplest, most honest answer I had. Because simple honesty seemed to be the quickest way out of the holding cell of your passenger seat. I said that the rain didn't make me think of anything in particular, it just made me more able to think in general. The rain makes me think.
You were disappointed, that your old strategies were null and void. You were disappointed that I wasn't bleeding for you anymore. You told me that the rain made you think of me, accompanied by a tone and a glance that suggested I should feel guilty for not giving the same answer. But that was it, wasn't it? I didn't think of you anymore. I was no longer your detainee. Everything you had to offer was was too little, too late. You were transparent to me now.