The Drowning Lands

The taste.

The scent.

The colour.

The burn as it goes down.

It’s warmth in liquid form. That slow, burning ember as it spreads from my tongue to my chest. Sinking deep, deep into my bones. The spirits of old wooden barrels carried by the ghosts of sugarcane fields, swaying under the hot, humid sun. 

The first sip is sweet, molasses rich, caramel smooth with a hint of vanilla. The whisper of spice and smoke, depending on the journey. Then the burn. Not harsh. Commanding. Demanding my attention. A fire, a campfire, its heat licking at my insides, urging me, begging me. Ordering me. Take another sip. Let the warm in. To take root. I always oblige.

It lingers, settling into my muscles, loosening the stiffness of the day. Replaced by a gentle sway. The world softens at the edges, and starts to fade. Laughter becomes easier, memories blur at the corners and time slows into something more forgiving. More manageable. Drink enough and the world tilts, slightly at first like a ship rocking on calm waters. Then the tide pulls me to a place where worries dissolve, where everything is golden and glowing, where I forget the shore ever existed at all.

Rumora.

The bottle sits heavy in my hand, condensation beading along its glass neck. The room is dim, the only light a sickly yellow glow from the kitchen, casting long, tired shadows. The air is stale, thick with the scent of old sweat and something sour, something rotting in the sink. A distant car alarm wails, sharp and relentless, drilling into my skull. My hands shake, whether from the cold or something deeper, I don’t know. The weight in my chest is unbearable, a knot of debts, regrets, and whispered apologies never spoken. I bring the bottle to my lips.

The taste.

The scent.

The warmth.

The colour.

The burn as it goes down.

The world softens. The weight unknots. The light in the room turns golden. The shadows stretch and melt into something softer, something welcoming. The car alarm fades into the distance, replaced by music. Gentle, swaying, full of laughter. The scent shifts, no longer sour and stagnant, but rich, sweet, full of promise. I close my eyes.

Rumora. I’m home.

The room softens, its hard edges melting like wax in candlelight. The sickly yellow glow from the kitchen shifts, deepens, turns golden. Like late afternoon sunshine spilling through an open window. The shadows stretch, but they are no longer tired or menacing, they flicker like firelight, warm and inviting. The air, once thick with the scent of sweat and something sour, transforms. Now, it carries the rich, familiar perfume of spiced rum, of sugarcane roasting under a lazy sun, of salt and warmth and old, sun-bleached wood. The distant wail of a car alarm dissolves into the low murmur of laughter, the clink of glasses, the hum of an old song played on an unseen radio. The couch beneath me isn’t sagging and threadbare anymore—it cradles me like an old hammock, rocking gently, like the deck of a ship on calm waters.

I exhale, and for the first time in forever, the weight in my chest is gone.

Rumora. I’m home. Don’t make me leave again.

The light is cruel. It slices through the blinds in thin, pale slats, stabbing into my skull. My head pounds, a slow, relentless throb behind my eyes. My mouth is dry, my tongue thick and heavy, tasting of stale rum and regret. The air is cold now, empty, stripped of warmth. The golden glow is gone—just the dim gray of morning settling over the wreckage of my life. Bottles litter the table, some toppled, some still standing like sentinels of my own destruction. The couch sags beneath me, no longer cradling, just swallowing me whole. The scent of sugarcane and salt is gone, replaced by sweat, by dust, by something I can’t name but recognise all too well. I turn my head, slowly, wincing as nausea coils in my stomach. The space beside me is empty. The closet door hangs open, half its contents missing. On the table, a note. I don’t reach for it. I already know what it says.

My hand trembles as I reach for the bottle.

Just one more drink.

The bottle is still here, waiting. It always is. My hands shake as I unscrew the cap, the sound too loud in the dead, empty room. The first sip is rougher this time—too sharp, too bitter—but I force it down. The second is smoother. The third, familiar. The fourth, a welcome embrace.

The light shifts.

Rumora. I’m home. Don’t make me leave again. I don’t like that other place.

The light is different this time. Warmer, softer. Late afternoon. For a moment, I think I’m still in Rumora, cradled in its golden glow. But then the warmth fades. The room sharpens. The air is heavy, stale. My head throbs, slow and punishing, a dull ache behind my eyes. My throat is dry, my mouth coated in something sour. The floor is cold beneath my bare feet as I push myself upright, my limbs sluggish, uncooperative.

The apartment is silent.

Too silent.

I look around, blinking against the haze. The couch is stained, rumpled. The table is covered in empty bottles, overturned glasses, the remnants of a night I barely remember. The closet door is still open, half-empty.

I rub my face, my fingers pressing into my temples. Something feels wrong. More wrong than usual.

Then I see it.

The note is still there. I left it untouched, convincing myself I didn’t need to read it. That I already knew what it said. But now, something gnaws at me. A slow, creeping dread slithers through my gut.

My hand shakes as I reach for it.

The handwriting is hers.

I can’t do this anymore.

The words are simple. Final.

I read it again. And again. As if the meaning will change, as if I can will the ink to rearrange itself into something softer, something that doesn’t carve into me like broken glass.

I try to remember the last time I saw her. The last thing she said to me. I try to picture her face, the way her voice sounded when she was still saying my name with love instead of exhaustion.

But the memories blur.

Were we fighting? Was she crying? Did she even say goodbye?

I don’t know.

I don’t know because I wasn’t here. Not really. I was in Rumora. Wrapped in its golden haze, its laughter, its warmth. While she was packing her things. While she was walking out the door. While she was giving up.

The room tilts. My stomach lurches. I press my fingers to my lips, my breath coming in short, sharp bursts.

She’s gone. And I don’t remember losing her.

I squeeze my eyes shut. My pulse pounds against my skull, my thoughts tangled, unraveling. I reach for the bottle.

Just one more drink.

Just until the light turns golden again.

Just until I forget.

I bring the bottle to my lips.

The taste.

The scent.

The warmth.

The colour.

The burn as it goes down.

I tell myself I’ll stop after this one. Just one more sip, one more night, one more escape. But I know the truth now. There is no stopping. No coming back.

This is a place I don’t belong. It’s cold, sharp, unyielding. A place of unanswered calls and empty spaces, of doors left swinging open, never to be filled again. A place where she is gone, and I let her slip through my fingers.

Rumora is warm. Soft. Forgiving. It does not ask questions. It does not expect me to be better, to fix what I’ve broken.

But it isn’t Rumora anymore. Not really.

The golden light is still there, but it flickers now, unstable. The laughter sounds farther away, like echoes bouncing off the walls of a cavern. The sway of the world feels different, heavier, pulling me downward instead of lifting me up.

The tide is rising.

My limbs are slow, my chest tight. The warmth that once cradled me now drags at my bones, a weight I can’t shake. The light isn’t golden—it’s murky, deep, endless. The voices grow muffled. The world tilts, but there is no ship, no shore. Only water. Only drowning. The bottle slips from my fingers, but I don’t hear it hit the floor.

I let the tide take me under.

Rumora. The Drowning Lands.