Hera Bradley stared out of the window from the room that was her prison.
      Even though it was only noon, the street lights were on because of the dark clouds that had rolled over the sun and blocked its warm rays.
      The water hadn't started it's downward flow yet, but the air was already thick with moisture.
      A calm masked the room and all its secrets, all its contents, all of its life. But it was the kind fof calm that you would feel before a storm or in the eye of the storm.
       Her black hair whipped around her shoulders softly from the breeze that managed to seep in from the open portion of her window.
      Everything she saw was mirrored in her piercing blue eyes. The trees bending harshly in the wind, the black wallpaper of the wall that was around the window, the dark marroon curtains that covered her window at night, the blackish-blue of the storm clouds outside.
      To look at her would only lead you to think that she was looking at something intently, watching it as a spectator.
      Instead, she was imaginging herself outside, dancing on the storm clouds and sending down the lightening. Dancing alone.
      She heard the faint click of a car door slamming in the driveway across the house.
      She hastily forgot her day dream and lost her focus on the storm. Her own storm would be coming in soon enough.
      Just the same, she jumped into bed and faked sleep to try and avoid it.

      With a bag of cold ice pressed against the corner of her eye to try and slow the swelling, Hera returned to her window gazing. The rain still hadn't come down.
      Hera opened her mouth and let soft sweet notes come out, notes that started the down pour immediatly.
       "Swing low, sweet chariot. Coming forward to carry me home. Swing low, sweet chariot...."
       The water soaked the ground and made the tree leaves glisten with wetness when the headlights of a passing car shot through the rain and spotlighted the trees for a breif second in time.
       She sighed and continued watching the rain, humming softly to herself.
       She let one thought enter her mind that was usually never there, thought only when she was sure no one was around and that no one would ever know.
      She thought of the song "I Will Come To You" that she had heard on the radio. She hadn't made an effort to go and buy the CD or even found out who sung it because she already knew all the words and could sing it of her own accord.
       The song seemed to call out to her demanding that she didn't give up.
       The words were everything she had ever wanted to hear but never heard.
       Alone in her room, 14-year-old Hera daydreamed.