To Be Loved By Storms

[CW: implicit child abuse, brief body horror (monster description), implicit autism spectrum discussion, blizzards]

Today's the day I change; today I will become what I have always been expected to be.

I nurse the bruise under my eye, wandering aimlessly into the field outside of town. The grass crunches beneath my feet, dead and frosted. Cows bellow in the distance. The birds overhead make a terrible, shrill racket as their wings beat against the sky; they swoop down into the trees, joining others in a familiar, desperate song. 

Come home! The birds seem to say. Come back to the safety of nests and branches! 

I turn and look behind me. The sky is vibrant and blue. I see someone approaching me from the distance; her bright red hair flies in the breeze with all the violence of a flame.

"Evelyn!" She calls. "Get back here, you rotten child!" 

I turn back around, facing forward. The sky ahead is tinted with a deep, seaglass green, and the color bleeds forward slowly, threatening to overtake all of the blue. Heavy, amber clouds roll in with the size and speed of great ships. There is a weight to the air. I can feel my hair rising up and standing on end. Within moments, the midday sky becomes a dark, ominous grey.

"Evelyn!" My mother calls once again. 

Today I shall not hear her; today, the storm is louder.

I step out into the field, then break into a sprint. I hike up my skirt so as not to trip, running like a feral cat through the thicket. I reach the trees and turn around. I can see a streak of red in the dark of the nearby barn; my mother has run for cover. I can almost feel her eyes scanning for me, but she won't see me. Today, the storm is darker. 

I head deeper into the woods. Snow begins to fall rapidly in icy, blinding tufts. The wind shifts between singing and screaming, smothering the forest with sharp blasts of feathery snow. The branches overhead creek under the additional weight. The world around me is consumed, blotted over with cold and silence. The sound of my footsteps - even my breathing - threaten to be swallowed up. Still, I continue deeper, pushing, stomping, and breaking past every branch that threatens to stop me.

I come across a large, dead tree. I climb on top of it, standing tall against the wind. 

The first time I open my mouth, the air is forced from my lungs, grabbed by the wind and carried off. The second time, I barely make a sound, my throat raw and quiet. I tilt my head down and take a deep breath, then throw my head back. The third and final time yields a scream - one high enough to cut above the wind, echoing throughout the entire forest. 

The snow stops. The woods go deathly quiet. I can hear the storm rage farther away, as if hearing it through the thick walls of a cabin. Sickly yellow light filters down through the canopies, turning the snow to gold; it is frightening, unnatural, and very beautiful.

A figure approaches me from between the trees. They move like fabric caught against the wind, rippling and bubbling with frantic energy. They approach wearing the space between land and sea, reaching out their branch-like hands, scanning me with their hollow eyes. 

"You shouldn't be here," The Storm says softly.

"I shouldn't be," I say, "but I am. As a matter of fact, I always happen to be where I currently am."

The Storm laughs. 

"By your perception, perhaps," they say, "but I like your perception regardless." They sit beside me on the fallen tree; even while I am standing up, the Storm towers above me.

"I've seen you before," I say.

"I've seen you as well," the Storm says. 

"Mother says I was born in a blizzard," I continue, "She says it was probably a bad omen. Perhaps it was your blizzard?"

"An omen?" The Storm asks, ignoring my question.

I nod.

"Mother says I ask unusual questions and do unnatural things," I whisper. The Storm leans in, listening carefully. I cup my hands and speak between them.

"The other children whisper cruel words behind my back, or laugh before I can understand why. More than once, I have heard people say that I must be evil - a changeling. Maybe that's what I've always been meant to be - something evil and inhuman. Something without a soul. I must be unlucky at the very least; I only seem to attract blizzards."

"So you believe that I have caused this?" The Storm asks. 

I shake my head.

"I just thought you might know what I truly am," I say. "Do I deserve the way that I'm treated? Am I meant to be something evil and destructive?" I can feel tears welling up, and I blink them back. The bruise under my eye throbs. I flinch. 

The Storm slowly shakes their head.

"You are human," They say. "No more or less evil than that."

"Then why do you show yourself to me?" I ask. "Why do you visit me with your blizzards?"

The Storm pauses at this. They place a large, branch-like hand over my shoulder, their fingers clicking and curling with the sound of dried bones. They gently pat my back as they speak.

"I find you to be an agreeable human," the Storm says finally.

"Why?" I ask.

The Storm pauses again.

"Do you know what my blizzards bring?" The Storm asks.

"Snow today," I say, "and rain tomorrow." 

The Storm seems to smile at that, their hollow eyes rising into crescents.

"Exactly," they continue, "and without rain, this land would wither. Could it thrive in other ways? Possibly. Does that possibility outweigh the destruction of the blizzards? Are the blizzards worth it? In this place, at this time, I would say yes - the blizzard is the best way to carry the weight of the rain." 

The Storm leans closer, level with my eyes. "What weight does your blizzard carry?"

"I don't know…" I say. "Probably not much. Apparently I'm just human." I reach up and gently rub the bruise on my cheek; it matches the ones on my arms, all turning the color of seaglass. "I thought there would be some reason for everything, but I guess not."

"You are here," the Storm says, gesturing to all of me with the wave of one, large hand. "At this time, in this place, where you currently happen to be. You are a natural phenomenon, and something somewhere shall thrive for it one day." 

I look away. I cannot mask my disappointment with this answer. 

The Storm sighs.

"What would you like from me, little one?" They ask.

I gently press my hand against the bruise once more.

"I want to be safe," I say.

The Storm nods. They trace their fingertips over my forehead; I can feel the static of lightning behind my eyes. I inhale deeply, sitting up straight. 

The Storm hums, their voice reverberating through the very roots of the trees.

"From now on," they say, "all who dare to lay a hand upon you shall learn the thirst of a rainless summer; for you - who sees the pulse of the smallest insect's wings, who knows the music within stillness, who lives and breathes the cacophony of being alive - you shall learn the weight of the storms that you carry. You shall give the rains - or withhold them. Such is the power and burden of the Unknown. All who know this plight stand with you. The storms have seen you, and they cherish you. You are loved."

The woods become silent. I open my eyes, looking down at my hands. I can almost make out the flicker of light under my skin; my bruises seem to rumble and glow like the very clouds overhead. I look around for the Storm to thank them, but they are gone. 

I walk through the forest, reaching the field leading towards town. I hesitate for a moment, then exhale deeply, marching on.

As I walk home, the calm of the eye stays spinning around me, leaving me untouched by the snow. The blizzard still rages on somewhere far away, but for this moment, all is blissfully silent. For once, I feel unafraid; I feel like things could be different. No - things will be different.

Change is the essence and power of weather - and I am loved by storms.