Kibas Rainbow

The first sign of a rainbow is always the rain. Kiba leaned against the window pane as he breathed his warm breath onto the cold glass. He loved how the mist formed; it seemed so mystical, even though he knew it was inevitable. Today, however, the mist seemed to go unnoticed, he did not stare at it in awe as he usually did, nor did he drag his fingers along the fogged up glass.
He stared out into the distance, a blank expression on his face, how very rare for one so appreciative of everything to sit so sullen. Kibas’ mother knew that whatever caused his glum state, had to be of a rather serious nature. Standing at his door frame, watching him lost in his own world, was amazingly captivating, she had been there for nearly five minutes now, quite ridiculous really.
As she turned to leave, Kiba suddenly snapped back to reality, he shook of his daze, but instead of resuming his gentle nature as expected by his mother, he slammed his open hand onto the glass and dragged his finger along it in clear despair. Knowing better than to question him, his mother proceeded down the passage, dazed and concerned.
As an intelligent four year old, Kiba had read a novel describing the quest of a father to find his lost son, his attitude, always optimistic even at the worst of times had inspired Kiba at that tender age. He carried with him the lessons he had learned from the book, fourteen years later he still latched on to the words etched into his mind, “the first sign of a rainbow, is always the rain.” He lived his life taking in all the events around him, remembering them and appreciating the lesson he learnt from each occurrence.
The worst situations in his life caused only a brief sadness, for he soon remembered that it was just the rain, and that his rainbow was soon to follow.
It was different this time. Nothing could compare to this feeling. His body was lame, his mind frozen and his ears ringing with the words that had caused this pitiful state. “She is dead Kiba”, said Mr Welling in an absurdly calm voice. She was dead. Kyra was dead. She was deceased. She had departed. She was, gone forever. He said it over and over again, using different words, numerous phrases, anything that would help it sink in. How could he accept, that his soul mate, his love, his entire reason for being, could be so swiftly stolen from him. It was fate, fate had brought them together, destiny had decided that they were meant to be, and now, it was fate that took her away. He blinked for a second, turned his back for just a moment, a single moment had he turned away from her perfect face, a brief flash and she was gone. Was this the plan? Had fate decided this? “Let Kiba pause for a moment, oh he will, he is human after all, wait for that moment, and we shall steal the angel, grab her out of his grip and force her to release her clasp”, he thought sarcastically.
Why had the word “chance” been put as a synonym for “fate”, he wondered. Kiba realised in that moment, that his whole life had being a dream, because of that dream he would never get a chance to say goodbye.
He no longer saw the rain as an opportunity for a beautiful rainbow. The rainbow was a consolation prize for the devastation that the rain had brought. The rain was just that, it was destruction.

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