{"id":266,"date":"2026-04-21T23:06:00","date_gmt":"2026-04-21T23:06:00","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/21-2\/?page_id=266"},"modified":"2026-04-21T23:23:23","modified_gmt":"2026-04-21T23:23:23","slug":"raindrops-on-snare-drums","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/21-2\/fiction\/raindrops-on-snare-drums\/","title":{"rendered":"Raindrops on Snare Drums"},"content":{"rendered":"

Amber Arquilla<\/span><\/p>\n

Badump, badump<\/span>
\nDrumsticks fall, banging to the beat of my heart. They strike like whiskey bottles on skin,<\/span>
\nsmashing in a cacophony of pain and fury.<\/span>
\nSo the song begins.<\/span>
\nThe cymbals rattle, the drums snare, tension and fear building with each step he took<\/span>
\non that creaky old staircase, each drunken threat he hollered through ash-beaten lungs.<\/span>
\nI can feel the beating, as the base kicks into gear, strumming to the tune of my wayward<\/span>
\nstrikes. It sounds like fear, like a balled-up child in a tiny closet, listening to footsteps on<\/span>
\nthe stairs. My rhythm increases, letting my heartbeat build with anticipation as the air<\/span>
\nhums along to our song. That closet door opened, ripped off its hinges by drunken rage.<\/span>
\nIt\u2019s time.<\/span>
\nMy drumsticks crash down, ricocheting with the force of knuckles on flesh, pounding<\/span>
\nand breaking and taking and hurting. I\u2019m in full swing, every beat hitting with the force of<\/span>
\na thunderclap, every strike stronger than the last.<\/span>
\nThe rush is intoxicating, a high I\u2019ll never leave behind. So I keep going, keep hitting,<\/span>
\nkeep banging with years of pain and anger and fear, all trapped in that damn closet.<\/span>
\nThere\u2019s singing in the background, electric piano and guitar, the bass still strumming its<\/span>
\nsteady tune. But none of that matters, not to me. All that matters is that I can slam a<\/span>
\nlittle harder, bruise a little more, run a little faster, always run a little faster, just keep<\/span>
\nrunning and running from that house and that bottle and that place and that man and\u2026<\/span>
\nThe song slows, and I slow with it. The singer\u2019s voice rings out a birdsong melody,<\/span>
\nfalling on my ears like raindrops on dew. The piano behind it drips each key, as I begin<\/span>
\nto lightly rattle my cymbals, building speed in their thundering reverberations. I can still<\/span>
\nimagine it, same as back then, the cold rain on my skin, soothing the bruises and cuts<\/span>
\non my bare, sprinting feet. The rain was so kind, cooling my pain and holding me close.<\/span>
\nThat gray and stormy day felt so\u2026real, so much warmer than the artificial light of all<\/span>
\nthose fake smiles. So, I ran away, away from those swimsuits and sunglasses, from<\/span>
\nthose days spent burning in the harsh sunlight, with a smile plastered on my face. I<\/span>
\nstopped pretending I was happy drowning in a house made of sand. I chose the rain,<\/span>
\nrunning through the streets as it dripped down my skin, speeding up with the snare of<\/span>
\nmy cymbals. It fell in sheets, washing off blood and guilt, soaking my body in a cold<\/span>
\nembrace.<\/span>
\nThe song finally builds again, taps turning to strikes as rain splashes to the beat of my<\/span>
\nbeatings. My hits land as his did, hard and fast, taking every piece of skin, every scrap<\/span>
\nof noise. Cymbals crash like roars, screams of who I\u2019m supposed to be, who he made<\/span>
\nme, yelling and hurting until they become nothing but noise. They\u2019re in the background<\/span>
\nnow, joining the birdsong melody, overpowered by the roar of my drumming. I have to<\/span>
\nkeep going, have to keep hitting, keep moving, keep running, keep fighting and fighting<\/span>
\nand fighting until they\u2019re finally gone and I\u2019m finally free and it\u2019s finally over and it\u2019s<\/span>
\nfinally<\/span>
\nOver.<\/span>
\nThe song\u2019s over.<\/span>
\nI feel my chest heaving, sticks falling from my grip. My bandmates have looks of<\/span>
\nconcern painting their faces, each drawn in its own unique way. Saori\u2019s face is full of<\/span>
\nsympathy, and more than a little worry, but she doesn\u2019t approach to comfort me. She<\/span>
\ncan\u2019t. Exes have their boundaries, after all. Sage\u2019s hand is on my shoulder, I can tell<\/span>
\nhe\u2019s asking if I\u2019m ok. I don\u2019t bother responding. Jeda\u2019s face is practically emotionless, as<\/span>
\nusual, but it\u2019s forced this time, a mask atop a mask. Dave sets down his bass, and<\/span>
\ntosses me a bottle of water from his fridge, wordless. His lack of humor says more than<\/span>
\nany words could\u2019ve.<\/span>
\nThere is a tense silence, in Dave\u2019s garage, the humming of summer crickets only<\/span>
\nserving to enhance the awkwardness. I chug the entire bottle. It tastes like rainwater.<\/span>
\n\u201cLet\u2019s go again. The other one.\u201d<\/span>
\nThere\u2019s a spiritual nod as everyone resumes their positions. I pick up my drumsticks,<\/span>
\nloosening my wrists once more, before flicking them against each other, releasing four<\/span>
\nsharp taps.<\/span>
\nDun, dun, dun, dun<\/span>
\nThe moment the fourth beat hits, I feel the hum of electric guitar reverberate through my<\/span>
\nchest, strumming along to the beat I\u2019ve set. The song kicks into high gear, what once<\/span>
\nwas a birdsong turns to a lion’s roar, as the bass matches my beat. I\u2019m in the<\/span>
\nbackground, restrained, timing to the rhythm of the song. And yet, somehow, I\u2019m not. I\u2019m<\/span>
\nnot just a piece of the background. I\u2019m a piece of the whole, of this whole, of a roaring<\/span>
\nand beautiful piece of pure, unadulterated emotions. A piece of a whole, a member of a<\/span>
\nhome. Of a family, playing a song in the rain.<\/span>
\nI remember the raindrops running across my skin. They\u2019re calm, cooling my burning<\/span>
\nanger and pooling in my hollow bones. The song slows, as the rain builds in speed and<\/span>
\nintensity. I can feel the storm, roaring in my ears and crashing against my skin,<\/span>
\nraindrops thumping against my drums and cymbals. The singer rings out, her voice<\/span>
\ngetting higher and higher, more and more powerful with every second, every cry. It feels<\/span>
\nlike pure, unbridled anticipation; building in every fiber of my being, every raindrop of my<\/span>
\nstorm. Her note reaches its pique, and it\u2019s almost time. My hands lift, as she goes silent,<\/span>
\ntension burning in the air, even the crickets quieting their little muses. It\u2019s like rain,<\/span>
\nfloating in the air, waiting for my signal to fall.<\/span>
\nWith a breath, I let them, splashing into cymbals with the force of a tidal wave, bringing<\/span>
\nthe world back to life. I submerge in the moment, consumed by the beat of the music<\/span>
\nand the rhythm of my soul, the dripping tune of raindrops flying off my instruments and<\/span>
\nbouncing off my skin. Running and drumming, splashing, not punching, banging my<\/span>
\nemotions into the dust with everything I have, everything I feel. It should be bloody,<\/span>
\nscrappy, painful and hurting. A broken tooth and a curdled choke. Instead,<\/span>
\nit\u2019s\u2026beautiful, water glowing in a kaleidoscopic array of vibrant and colorful sounds that<\/span>
\nreverberates off my broken and bruised drumsticks, glowing brighter and brighter as I<\/span>
\ndrum faster and faster, running though the rain and drumming through the pain,<\/span>
\nsmashing cymbals and dodging shouts, tears in my eyes and pain in my chest, all<\/span>
\npushing me towards one, singular, infinite thing:<\/span>
\nFreedom.<\/span>
\nI let out one final swing, with everything I have, scattering noise, bloody and fractured<\/span>
\nand painted every color.<\/span>
\nI let the sticks drop, in Dave\u2019s garage.<\/span>
\nI take a breath, deep and ragged.<\/span>
\nAnd I start talking.<\/span><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Amber Arquilla Badump, badump Drumsticks fall, banging to the beat of my heart. They strike like whiskey bottles on skin, smashing in a cacophony of pain and fury. So the song begins. The cymbals rattle, the drums snare, tension and fear building with each step he took on that creaky old staircase, each drunken threat… <\/p>\n

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