All she originally wanted was, to dine. The events of the fateful evening took the N out of it.

I wish the rain drains me of life, Monica said to herself as she wondered how she just said something poetic, even at the cusp of death. Monica sighed hard and inhaled to make up for it. Her shapely body, as if waiting for the challenge, took in more than it usually did. She now looked fat. It depressed her even more that she wouldn't look good in death and exhaled, this time with a greater degree of control. With the right amount of oxygen in to help her feel good and the right amount of carbon-dioxide to make her feel deluded, she was primed to make an informed, stupid decision.

I shall let the drain rain me, she said, smacked her forehead and stuck out her tongue. I shall let the rain drain me. The last thing she wanted was her last words to be worthy of scorn.

Monica then stepped out of the house and stood in the pouring rain. As droplet after droplet smashed into her statue-like form, she felt a tinge of sorrow steadily boring through her weak mind as though it yearned to leave her dying self so it could find a new home for itself.

If only Ramji hadn't mocked me! she thought without realising he would've jumped in front of a train had he not.

She forgot she was standing in pouring rain, that she was getting soaked and that it could potentially kill her. It didn't matter as that's what she wanted. She was lost in thought. Thoughts actually, although lost in thoughts would be incorrect usage - more so when it is about someone who is dying. The dying don't just deserve to be respected posthumously. Her mind took her on one final trip through memory lane and replayed her last conversation with Ramji before it was time for curtains.