chilled - a short story

Instructions

Two projects in one day??! I've hit one of those glorious days of a ton of inspiration and God has gifted me with words today, and so I hope to grace you with them as well. He got me through a tough time and gave me this wonderful ability to write - He can bless you too. Trust in Him. <33 Enjoy this piece! —————————————————— Draft: 1 Writing time: 20 min. Tone: Melancholic, wistful Inspiration: I don't actually know :) .......................................................... Cold. That’s the word that comes to mind, but it’s much deeper than that. It’s not tangible, just out of reach as I try to grasp it to throw it away, far, far away. It’s not an outward chill, it reaches into my soul, settling there and spreading throughout me the moment her hand drops from my own. She was the only thing keeping the cold from reaching inside of me, she took it all herself— bearing the worst of the weight until she let that cold go too far inside of her. And now it’s coming for me. I want to reach for her hand again, her pale, cold hand, begging her to keep fighting the cold. Selfish. That’s what I feel. Why didn’t I take some of it? Why her? She didn’t want me to have to feel that, she hid it from me, and she did her job much too well. Come back. Please, come back. She was always the strong one. Maybe if it was me, she would be able to bring me back. But I am not strong. As I run out of the room, cursing myself for leaving her, but unable to bear the sight any longer. Weak. I think to myself as the cold curled inward. As I drop to my knees on the winter-ridden dirt, my tears like icicles on my cheeks, making their way down down down until they stab the dirt and pine needles on the ground below me, reaching into the chilled soil, escaping the cruel world, digging their own holes to hide away in. I feel disgusted by myself, by this wet, ugly feeling. If she was here, she would brush the long-dead pine needles from my tangled hair, smoothing it out in the magical way she always did. She would take me to the side of the little river— even now I could hear it— and whisper tales of times before my own, when she would dream of drifting away from the world, down the little river, gone, gone, gone. “We’ll disappear together.” But she left without me. Down the river, but not our river. Leaving me in the cold. Gone, gone, gone.