Eyes Like silver Rain Part 1

                           Eyes Like Silver Rain
                                    Amber-Eyed Spirit

      Beautiful was never the first word that came to mind when one looked at her. She was too tall, neither slender nor obese, and unattractively pale with freckles splayed across her pink cheeks. Brown hair with wild, Medusaic curls framed a face heavy with her father's German heritage. Her eyes were his, as well, cold blue and gray with spots of green and amber which surfaced at irregular times that were probably agents of her mother's brown rebelling against the ice. They were frigid, confused, chaotic, and altogether inadequate masks trying to shade the turmoil that lurked behind them. Her nose was oddly shaped, round and slightly turned up.  Her lips were nothing special. The upper was thin, and the lower, though fuller, was rarely ever seen, as she chewed on it constantly out of anxiety. Her chin was small, with a cleft in it. Her feet were large and ungainly, with no arches in them at all. Her hands possessed no daintiness in them to speak of.
        Her delicate and graceful neck and collarbones were the only attractive part of her awkward body, the only parts of her that possessed any femininity at all.
        No, she would never be considered beautiful. At least, not by him.
She pondered all this as she tiptoed across the waterlogged sand of the seashore. She gazed out into the distance, eyes fixed steadily on the hazy horizon, where the sea and sky experienced an eternal honeymoon. He was somewhere out there, either in the sea, despite her warning him to stay off her ocean, or in the sky, where he belonged. The cold winds of the Atlantic morning licked at her exposed arms, but she paid no heed to their bite. It only served to mirror the chill in her heart. She fished in her jeans' pocket for something cold, hard, and metallic. A tiny, silver, pebble-like object that she held between her thumb and forefinger with "M7" and a rose carved into its surface. It was the only truly heartfelt thing that he had ever given her. She flipped it over to reveal a stylized "R" with a berry laden branch, a rowan branch, etched into it. This she added after he gave it to her.
       She continually flipped the small silver stone over in her hand until the friction warmed the cold metal. This was all he left her with- a tiny silver stone as cold as their hearts, and memories that made her wish that she were cold in the grave. This wasn't a token of love or affection. This was a reminder of the pseudo-friendship that had grown up between the half-hearts they possessed. He held half of her heart, and he half of his heart that might have fit with hers was stolen by another woman. Or given to that woman… a woman who… who he would have gladly died for. And since he possessed half of her heart, and the other woman possessed the half of his heart that she needed, she would have gladly died, as well, for him to be with the one who held his heart captive.
       She flipped it over, and over, and over again, closed her fist around it, then raised her hand behind her head. She gripped the pebble with all the strength she possessed in her hand and then flung her fist forward, as if she was going to toss the stone into the sea, for the merciful ocean to beat against until it was polished, and worn smooth until the etchings would be washed away and indiscernible. But she couldn't let it go. Her fist never opened, and instead she dropped to her knees, the cold sand sticking uncomfortably to the denim. She didn't care.
How many mornings on how many seashores on how many seas on how many pieces of sand in how many corners of the globe had she repeated this ritual? Far to many to count, she had decided long ago. One day she was certain that she would actually toss the godforsaken tiny piece of silver into the horizon, but of course, not today. Today she was not strong enough. Today she still wore his unrequited love around her like a cloak. Today… today she had eyes like silver rain, the grays more dominant than the blue, heavy with her desire, heavy with her despair. Today she felt sick with herself.
      She kneeled in the sand for what could have been seconds or eternity, having yet another oft' repeated conversation with God. God, be with him. God shower him with love, with mercy and grace, with hope, with strength, with patience, and again, with love. I beg You, God, bless him. For years she had prayed this, even in the good days, even before her eyes turned to silver rain.
       Her reverie ended with a sigh and a clap of thunder. She mused over the cliché, how it always rains when something sad happens. The heavens unleashed their tears and she walked back up the beach. She loved the rain; she absolutely detested the cliché. She moved slowly in the rain, sinking down in the sand. Her clothes darkened and her curls were weighted down in a wet mop on her head,  and the rain fell harder, but nothing could have made her move any faster. Right now, she was far too unhappy to care. She craned her neck upward to the sky.
"What? You expect me run? To seek shelter from your fury? You don't scare me, oh granite sky. Do your worst."