forever snow.

A lonely girl sits over ice. It is uncomfortable, rubbing through the material of her jeans, cooling her skin, such a sharp cold it seeps through to her bones, too. It only reminds her of herself a bit more.

The whole world seems to be immersed in ice. White, diamond, stubborn blue. Her breath fogs before her, the promise of things she cannot see but wishes to grasp. The snow coats every inch of the scene, her hands, her black hair dusted with flakes, the ground remolding around her boots, swallowing her to the very core of the earth. The leaves all bend beneath the weight of the snowstorm, refusing to crack. Some do, along with some tree branches. They glitter the floor before being sepulchred by more snow. Never-ceasing, unapologetic.

The few tears of water sordid enough not to turn to ice or weak enough to give in so quickly they melt with their own fury shine beneath a sun that teases, taunts, but never shows up. It is cold, lonely. Of course, life still finds a way, though barely. Birds still tweet, the sound clinging to the air in hopeful balance, clinging to invisible strings. Somewhere along the depth of the forest she has not yet ventured to, more animals slumber, too tired or cold or smart enough not to freeze themselves to gain... whatever it is she years for.

She pictures herself as a lake, frozen over, rendered useless until warmth makes its renewed appearance in the spring. Think about it. A lake's sole purpose is to reduce the warmth blushing the skin and coating it with sweat in blistering summer nights. It functions as a food source, to catch fish and quench the hunger of families and communities entire. But now, during the forever winter, what was she to do? What was her purpose?

Another breath turned to fog. Another wish reduced to nothing. And she waited, the cold biting the skin off her ass, turning her fingers to numb sticks, making her lungs work to warm the air up, keep her safe, even if she was stubborn enough to refuse such safety pulsing through her. She waited. But she never knew what for.

Like any human, there were needs that required attention. So she slept, of course. Through the cold nights, curling up around herself like a small puppy, vibrating off her skin, humming just so she could say her voice was not lost. Not yet. Eventually, the cold would become part of her, invading her senses, asking her brain to surrender to the familiarity and sleep. Even her dreams were misty, cluttered, images blurred by fear and cold winds. Whispers of silk, whisks of perfume, tendrils of caresses across her skin.

Often, her limbs began to ache. Staying in one place for a long time was begging the universe to keep her there, static, never changing. She felt uneasy at the thought. Her soul longed for change, for growth, for maturity. But in her belly, deep within where no one could see, she felt a sense of relief. Change in her life meant death: the death of summer to give way to autumn, the death of a loved one to give way to flowers. So she ran instead.

She never ventured far, not out of cowardice, but of caution. Maybe she often confused the two, but she was too far into herself to care. Around the perimeter of the small cube she cared for as if it were her home, past trees she blurred past, trunks she had marked with a dagger she had once thrown into a river in a fit of frustration but now regretted. It was never a long run; she kept coming back to her own personal purgatory. When her breath was not a series of clouds before her face, but a steady mist that wouldn't give in, she'd stop, bend her back to brace her knees until those fell to the floor with a dead, soft thump. And she'd cry.

The tears would never reach the ground, water anything. They'd freeze in her face, hurting twice over, one from the pain stretching its limbs inside her heart, an unwelcome stranger settling into her own shack, the other confused for humiliation at crying over the seasons past, longing for the smell of tulips and the rush of the sea against her bare toes before it retreated to the ocean, an unfulfilled promise. When crying no longer soothed her, when it felt more like a chore, she'd stand up, shaking not from the cold but from the sobs, and walk back to her familiar patch, made anew by the still-falling snow. And she'd smile, briefly, a nanosecond, because she just was.

Days came and went, but she never did shower. There was no source of warmth to unfreeze the bodies of water nearby enough for her to take a quick dip. She had no idea where the animals gathered water to quench their thirst from, but she admired their perduring strength and will. She lacked hers, a faint memory she couldn't trace without being abated. Showering felt stupid. The realization that no matter how hard she scrubbed, her pains would still linger, her scars would still coat her skin, the dirt of her jealousy and loneliness and lies would still crowd her being, make her uneasy. Showering was a temporary solution to the racket festering inside her.

Whenever her thirst grew, she'd cup small portions of ice and let it melt in her closed hands, holding it up to her parted, chapped lips. It was a humbling experience, to say the least. Being aware her body was still clinging to life, even when she sometimes wished her system would just shut off. Her lungs did their bid to keep her breathing, her heart functioned to pump blood, to allow those nerve endings to receive signals, understanding pain and pleasure. Her brain was both her best friend and her enemy at times, and it still roared on, a robotic machine, keeping all of her other systems in tandem, reminding her of distant sceneries, different names, locked hands, bland tastes, stolen smiles.

The winter bit, but she bit back. Barely. She'd curse herself aloud just to use her voice, to ward off other potential threats lurking in the woods. She had a feeling that her loneliness was self-imposed, a hell of her making. She could run, leave her little nook and never turn back. Eventually she'd stumble onto a highway, or a small street in a deserted city. Civilization would open its welcoming arms in a forlorn hug. But she resisted the temptation. Here, a slow, dignified death awaited her, maybe. But outside, that destiny was sure and granted. Either by her hand or other's, she wasn't sure.

Sometimes she'd sleep near two trunks big enough to provide cover from the ferocious wind licking her face and every inch of her that was bare, crawling under the seams of her cheap green jacket to petrify her skin. The cold sometimes could be purifying, so she never resented it. She was waiting.

Waiting.

Waiting.

The sun shone on her as she rested her whole body on the snow, her back getting soaked almost instantly. Still coward enough to only shine dimly, she closed her eyes for a second, content on the temporary respite. Her breaths lulled her, she counted her heartbeats. She recited names like old scripture, forbidden enchantments.

Josephine. Aries. Sergey. Christine. Leo. Emmanuel. Thomas.

She didn't know if it was in a trance, but she felt something move next to her. No strength remained in her limbs, but her eyelids drew up just enough to assess no immediate threat was impending. She kept her eyes open, staring at the bluest sky, the snow ceasing. Finally. Tragically.

Her head turned on its own, and her eyes dropped closed without her authorization, but she sensed it. Saw the image in her mind's eye. A hand outstretched. The features distinguishing it flickered, a premonition that couldn't choose one single owner. Long nails painted green with faint wrinkles in the knuckles, jewelry gleaming on three fingers. White flesh with veiny paths, short nails, chubby fingers. A smaller hand than the last two, but bigger than her own, bitten nails, familiar fingers. A man's hand, wrinkled and old, punctured by needles and prodded by tubes, nails long but weak. Scars trailed over another hand, short nails, brown skin, one she knew like her own.

And she saw them all. She felt each one of them as if they were next to her. Could've sworn the hands leaked warmth, kept her from dying in the cold. She longed to touch them all, cling to them, intertwine her weak fingers with strong ones, someone to pull her up, usher her back to civilization. She almost did.

And then she stood up.