Rain

I'm writing, or at least trying to write a short short story with the running theme of "Rain" (note that I have aptly titled it Rain due to the lack of creativity), and this is what I have written so far.
The basic idea of the story operates on a flashback and then back to the present, highlighting how rain has been present in all the symbolic and incidental moments of this little boy's life. A little cliched? Shoot me.
It is written from the perspective of this little boy and how he struggles with moving to a foreign country, adapting to a different culture, and his main concern - overcoming the bullies.
It is supposed to be a simple and relatable story, I just have to figure out how to finish it =(.

I could not believe I was intimidated by the big hulking bully who lived next door. Billy the Hulk, as he had been aptly nicknamed by all the smaller kids on the block, gorged eternally on marshmallows, puddings, fried chicken and anything his grubby hands could contain. I was surprised that he had not resorted to cannibalism yet. Dressed permanently in a pair of secondhand breeches and an unwashed singlet, I cowered miserably under his dominating stare.

I was the poor and unfortunate brown kid he picked on the most. It was raining cats and dogs the day my mother and I landed in our rattling aircraft in the state of Texas. It was 1989 and I remember being four years old, and peering out of the grimy window get a glimpse of what the “American Dream” was supposed to look like. It looked wet and unattractive.

We got off the plane at San Antonio International Airport, collected our bags and met my father there. He had arrived there a month earlier to set up our home. His handsome face looked haggard with newly formed dark circles.

“You look thin,” was the first thing my mother remarked when she saw him. They hugged. He threw me up in the air and I laughed. I loved it when he did that.

“Let’s go, our new house is waiting.” We followed him to the subway, bag and baggage. My father bought us subway tickets to last the week and I watched as he anxiously ran his fingers over the worn out notes twice over. With a sigh, he tucked his wallet back into his pocket. I realized something was bothering him, and to make him feel better, I tried to show it by hugging his leg. He ran his hand through my hair and said, “Everything will be okay, son.” I just knew it would be okay.

The subway was filled with faceless people – black, white, brown, yellow – staring ahead from within their big windcheaters. I held on tight to my mother’s coat. Two hours later, exhausted and panting, we reached our housing block ironically named Castle Hills.

I looked up at the dilapidated and graying apartment building unwillingly. Memories of our home in India came flooding back. I dropped my mother’s hand and made a mad dash to see how far my little four- year old legs could take me.

My parents caught up with me. My mother slapped, cajoled and hugged me.“What is wrong with you, ha?” She shook me by my arms. I refused to speak.