Monsoon Season

Monsoon Season

Tw: suicide attempt, mental health awareness

This is not a tale of romance. This is not a spiritual recalling. This is not based on a true story. This simply is, take it how you will, and it began like this…

1. A beautiful clear sky. A beautiful creature of golden brown skin. Limbs stretched across the mushy lawn, chin tilted up towards the scorching sun. Hair tangled in overgrown, cold weed; black and green knots.

The creature was braided into the ground when Nichol found it. Its legs and arms are the same color as his, their hair the same texture. Their face held the pointiest,  but wide nose Nichol had ever seen, its eyelashes and full lips were familiar to his own as well, though he noticed its lips were assymetrical. Then it opened its eyes; two piercing cocoa brown eyes. As it did the roots which kept them on the ground fell away, slowly, light cracking sounds filled the air as they did. It slowly sat up, human-like rolls formed on its abdomen. A piece of grass fell from its hair and disappeared with the wind. They fixed their eyes on Nichol and asked.

“How long until it rains?”

2. A long moment passed. Nichol heard them, but didn’t listen. It is not until they spoke that he considered this creature to be human. Color filled their cheeks as Nichol stared longer. 

“How long until it rains?” They asked again, with soft determination.

Nichol snapped back to life. “The first rain?” 

“Rain, yes,” the creature nudged their chin up, pushing Nichol to think. “I need to know.” 

“I’m not sure,” Nichol’s mouth began speaking without thinking. “Maybe in two weeks? The leaves are turning.” 

The creature scrunch their nose and cast their gaze down, then up towards the sun. “Is that enough time to live?” They looked back down and met Nichols eyes, this time familiarity behind them.

Nichol was drowning in them. “Have you never lived?” He asked, then immediately recoiled at his question.

“No,” The creature maintained eye contact but tilted their head. “I was hoping I could before the first rain. I only have until the first rain,” They fixed their gaze forth. 

Ahead, through the trees, laid the village Nichol lived in, or resided in simply. Nichol always thought his life hadn't started yet; the village was too small. He followed the creatures gaze and tried looking at the village how they would. Small. Dark. 

“It’s beautiful,” they sat up further, eyes never leaving the stout spread of bricks and glass down below. Nichol turned his gaze back on them, watching them act as if they had just discovered a city of gold. He stared longer, taking in such innocence he stopped recognizing within himself long ago. He realized what he was doing and quickly turned his eyes back on the village, attempting to see it in this new light. 

“I’m not sure what you’re looking for. I’m not sure you will find it here,” he stands up, lifting them along as he says: “But I don’t have much to do now that you're here.” 

Nichol held their hand as they stood up, the grass slipping from their coils, and together they walked down to the gothic village. 

3. The day was still so bright; the light caused a sore sight when it shone on the muddy, dirty brick ground. The newcomer didn’t see it like that. They saw the beautiful wood outlining the cone-shaped brick houses tightly packed. They saw the beautiful geometric pattern the stones on the main road forged. They saw scattered weeds which pushed themselves through the old cracks on the ground, decorating the cold gray with haphazardly splashes of color. They saw the baker’s kid hurrying out of the bakery with five bags of loafs to deliver. They heard the sounds of men and women’s skirts in the crisp wind - a storm was coming, though no one could yet tell. 

Nichol halted suddenly in the middle of the busy street. He turned to them, and spoke in a careful whisper.

 “I can’t do this for you,” he spoke slowly.

They were still admiring the busy village when they said: “You haven’t even asked my name, Nichol.” 

His heart shrunk. “How do you know mine?”

They exhaled quickly, almost laughing. “I don’t own a name. Who gave you yours?”

Nichol wanted to ask his own question again, but instead chose to answer. “My parents,” he answered sharply; he was growing sick of escorting someone so lost in life. 

“Could you give me mine?”

Nichol looked away from them, knowing immediately what it could be.

 “I heard this in a story once,” he paused to recall the pronunciation. “Ori.”

They paused for a moment as well. “I’m not sure what it means,” they slumped their shoulders slightly, clearly disappointed. 

“It doesn’t mean anything, just like my name doesn’t mean anything either,” Nichol stated. 

“Do names don’t mean anything in this world?” They looked at the ground once, then up, straight into the sun. 

 “You can’t look into the sun, you’ll hurt your eyes.” 

They look down at him with those deep and romantic brown eyes, Nichol almost forgets this is the first day he has met this… person. “Your name doesn’t have a meaning -yet,” he scrambles to invent something for Ori to believe in.  “Your name gains its meaning once you become a well-rounded person.”

They look back down; Nichol notices their toes curling under their feet. “Do you like this name?” he asks. 

“I do,” they look up at him and smile. Neither of them notice the small roots growing from Ori's toes. “I will keep it.” 

4. That night, Ori refused to go into Nichol’s home, a small brick cottage on the outskirts of town, and they insisted on sleeping outside. 

“Under the shattered sun,” they had said. 

Now, Nichol lay on one of the sheets he had rolled across the lawn, Ori right beside him in the other. 

Both found sleep eventually. One dreamt of rain. The other of what could've happened before the story began.

On the other side of town, a rock stayed loose on the cliff side. It will wait for Nichol, should he choose to come again. 

5. The sun woke Nichol from restless slumber; the first of what he felt was distress, as customarily of him, along with a foggy vision. He immediately looked beside him, only to find broken roots adorning the ground where Ori had laid under the moonlight. They were nowhere to be seen. Maybe they had never been there after all. 

Alone, Nichol made his way across the village. He noticed the baker’s kid running with his bag of bread. He squinted his eyes at the brick huts, finally noticing the dark wood that acted as the skeleton of each house. He didn’t look directly at them, but Nichol did his best to avoid stepping on spots of green color scattered on the ground. 

He made it to the hill. He looked towards the sun behind him and realized how early in the day it was. No one would find him out here until later into the evening, perhaps until the following morning. His steps slowed as he approached his destination. He thought of Ori; real or not, their curiosity and innocence of the world around them haunted him. Where is Ori now? Were they locked away inside his mind or wandering the village, alone?

Nichol did not have time for this. He approached the spot he lay at yesterday, at the bottom of a small chasm. He could see it now. He stopped in his tracks. Beside the now shaded area in which he began this story lay broken roots; they covered a generous patch of grass.  

This was all he needed; his heart choked his lungs. He fell to his knees beside the roots, his hand reaching out to them. As he touched the warm earth, a thought crossed his mind. 

“Ori is real,” escaped his lips softly.  The world around Nichol made no response, despite the monumental revelation he felt he had.

Just then, a rock dislodged from the side of the small cliff and fell. It hit the ground at massive speed, directly beside Nichol; the spot where he had lay for seventy-two days. Nichol was astonished. He had missed his opportunity, but he couldn’t bring himself to feel upset. He focused on his breathing. He was unaware he counted each inhale; each extra breath that had been granted to him. He was overcome with immense strength. He had thought his breaths were numbered, but now that the moment had passed he realized he did not know what was next. Would the sun rise tomorrow? Will the taste of water differ from always? Will the baker’s kid continue to run? The unknowns did not scare him, it gave him strength. 

He let his hand fall from the root which he realized he was still grasping, collected himself, and made his way back to the village. Ori was real and he needed them. 

6. Ori rested on the North side of the village, soaking in the midday sun. They wondered why Nichol had not yet woken if the sun was so bright. That is when they felt the thump of the rock. Ori sat up quickly, their roots snapping from the ground. They stood up, not sure if they had felt the thump along with… something else. They quickly made their way to the west side, trying not to be completely enchanted and distracted by the wonderful red bricks which decorated the structures of the North side. As they went, they tried to imagine Nichol’s heartbeat, hoping it was still pumping life into him. 

“We just have to make it to the first rain,” they said, nearing the outskirts of the fated lawn. 

7. Nichol had snapped a root from the fated lawn and was now carrying it in his right hand, as he had done with Ori’s hand just a day before. He broke through the trees, making his way down the last hill which separated the woods from the village. That’s when he saw Ori. 

Ori, who’s hair still had grass tangled in it, who’s skin had become different shades of brown as they grew and shed roots, who’s eyes seemed to generate sparks as they found Nichol’s. 

They both stop an arm's length away from each other. Nichol wants to say something. Ori knows he doesn’t need to. The silence stays, but it is not uncomfortable. Just then, a loud rumble tears the air between the two. Ori jumps and slaps their midsection. 

“It’s been doing that all day,” Ori says and shakes their head. 

Nichol laughs, quietly at first then louder and stronger. The sound is uncontrolled and staggered, as if Nichol was just learning how to laugh; he is.