Frost’s Bite

I waited for him in the dead of night, shivering against the pristine arctic air blowing through my windows. Snow and its bitter companion always remind me of when he left. I remember his last words: “I’ll be back soon.”  It’s been three years I’ve lived under this heavy chill. All the seasons are winter, always numbing, the way my toes curl under as I pace back and forth over frigid floor boards. The moon is out, I can see it through the blinds, spilling through the slits, like a razor to a wrist. I think the light is mocking me, like ravens and crows lined up in a row perched at my window watching and waiting for my next move.

Should I go or should I stay?

I wasn’t born with useful things like feathers, to take flight on a whim. Instead, I have limbs, heavy, useless. I have no protection, always naked, he stripped me bare, no beating heart, he took it when he left. All I have is this cursed brain that constantly rewinds and replays the same haunting message: “I’ll be back soon.” 

Soon wasn’t soon enough.

 

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