Discovering rock bottom poolside in Morocco.
I did not want to go home.
My footing was a little uneasy as I stood on our villa's rooftop just outside Marrakesh. Narrowly avoiding the crunch of baked-on bird faeces on the spiral staircase, my legs dangled over the edge, catching the evening breeze. Haze was forming over the Atlas Mountains, with my final days in Morocco coming to a close.
My legs were on fire, scorched in the sun from two days on horseback. Not quite reaching the peeling stage yet but, enough to make every step chafe relentlessly. We didn't know we needed to bring jeans, a mistake I won't be making again. The cool breeze cut through the burning sensation, giving my mind a moment to process the last few days. I should not have paused to reflect. Decisions I had left in limbo came back tenfold with blades sharpened. Questions I'd been avoiding for months were now kicking in the back door of my mind.
Marrakesh to me, for all its beauty, is more like an open-air zoo showcasing the breadth of the human condition than a curated location for relaxing vacationers. An "all-inclusive" holiday would have been a grand offence to the (beautiful) chaos of the night market.
I did not want to go home.
Our villa sat a few miles from the epicentre of the hurricane. A quiet, walled-in luxury compound. Well, it was luxurious in the purely expensive sense. There was no taste, no cohesive aesthetic beyond money, and no joy to the structure. Cold to the touch, and pulled straight from a TV studio. A collection of expensive furnishings from the first page of, what I can only assume was, the Moroccan IKEA catalogue. Fake grass, fake plants, minimalist furniture, an unnecessarily large couch, and random flowing metallic sculptures on the side cabinets to fill the rest of the vacuum.
There was no toilet paper in the house, but there were multiple weight machines and a ping pong table in the basement instead. Heaven forbid you'd actually want to use the toilet after a questionable dinner at the paper plate street kitchen.
An artificial oasis - separated from the chaos.
You can't go anywhere, there's nothing around for miles, but "why would you want to leave hrmm? We have everything here." I could already feel the rusting barrel of a Kalashnikov nestled politely (but convincingly) between my shoulder blades. A ransom note sent to my family back home and a LiveLeak video pre-programmed for release.
Maybe I could ask for some toilet paper to dry my eyes in these final moments.
Dusk rolled in, and the remaining pirate crew gathered on the poolside couches. The comedown was upon me, and not the kind you can top up by taking another hit in the bathroom. Something had infiltrated my body, and my head was pounding. It could have been the desert dust, the icy ocean water, abusing gunpowder tea, or just the total annihilation of my adrenal system.
Laughter bounced around the awning and the canopy quickly filled with smoke. The silhouette of the Atlas Mountains was replaced by impossibly bright white teeth and bleary eyes, but the haze obscuring them was the same.
I was barely holding on. Staring blankly into the centre of the group.
Sitting to my left was Riley in a plastic garden chair. Yapping for hours nonstop, he reminded me of a younger, more frantic, Canadian version of myself.
Fidgeting, unable to sit still, and hyper-focused on every single word out of your mouth. If you had a pimple forming under your skin, he'd know about it days before you caught a glimpse of the pustule in the mirror. Every word and eye movement executed with a blend of instinctual and intentional precision. Constantly looking for the angle, the edge, the next big thing. The things you were saying and the things you were actually saying.
Canadian perma-optimism, backhanded with Scottish scepticism.
He is the equivalent of smoking both ends of the cigarette at the same time.
We had only met a few days before, but our relationship was magnetic. Surviving two gruelling days of horseback riding together. Although I was functioning like a brain-dead blob fish dragged from the depths of the ocean that night, I knew he would play a huge part in my life.
Despite my current downtrodden state though, I enjoyed his company immensely.
Sinking deeper into the orange couch, my posture reflecting an unfurled armadillo, I slipped in and out of consciousness. Slouched and unable to escape the gravity of my self-imposed position. There was nothing good for me to go back home to. My long-term relationship was falling apart, my business was killing my creativity, and every morning gave me a 50/50 chance of being stabbed in the front or in the back because of decisions I refused to make. I had no one else to blame, and that's what hurt the most.
A sweet scent of dried lavender broke the harsh air as Matt burst open the bag he'd picked up in Marrakesh market to blend in with his cigarettes. Of course, I gratefully smoked one, hoping a zap of nicotine and a little spluttering could pull me out of this purgatory fog.
The conversation drifted to our futures and what we wanted to do with our respective worlds. All the ways we'd been burned in the past, and how no one could mess with us ever again. A crescendo was quietly growing in the background. The light yet sharp stings of an orchestral violin, striking with increasing volume and pace.
With Riley, you are immediately thrown into the deep end of the conversational pool. Forcing each other to hold your breath until you can't stomach the lack of air any longer and both fight for the surface. There was nothing casual about our new friendship.
His eyes began pressing up against the bubble wrap I'd tied around my soul, releasing a single excruciating question,
"Will I be ok?"
Deep black puddles rapidly formed on either side of his nose.
I saw a mirror image of myself in him. A reflection of the man I'd been for the last nine months, or even maybe, the last two years. Lost, alone, depressed and unfulfilled. The truest version of myself seeping out into the cheap plastic chair next to me with the sole intent of tearing me in two.
My eyes refused to let go, and time slipped out beneath me. The background atmosphere slowed, talking slurred, and each laugh echoed back and forth between my ears. Riley somehow managed to grab a piece of my soul and do the unthinkable unintentionally.
This wasn't a sucker punch from a random drunk, this was the most honest version of myself twisting the sword in a little deeper.
He did my thing. The thing I do to other people. Pointing out the elephant in the room with sincerity and watching their inner world shatter under the weight.
"Yes... just don't do what I did."
The words fell out of my mouth almost instantly, instinctually.
As if they had been on the tip of my tongue for years, just wanting for the right prompt and level of despair to spur on their release. Typically, I'd have been more reserved, held myself back, even presented a risk-free opinion. Especially to someone as fresh-faced in my life as Riley. But not tonight. The words were direct, brutal, and a warning to take a different path. Speaking backwards in time to not just a new friend but to myself.
"Do not refuse help because you're afraid of being seen, do not walk in my shadow, do not look up to my failing freelance business, or chase the internet guru lifestyle you are told to want."
My mind was screaming to protect him, but no words came out.
The sand just continued to slip through my fingers, there was nothing I could do.
Riley's face dropped.
The corners of my eyes faded to black, and the rest of the night was a blur. My mind wiping everything beyond that moment.
All I can remember now is Riley's question, the dusty orange glow of cigarette tips, and the poolside scene around him, burned into my memory forever.
Riley told me later that I broke his heart with this conversation. What he doesn't know is that he broke mine as well.
Connor x
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