Everything he touched was cold. Winter had penetrated all
and nothing around him, freezing every last bit of warmth into a clear, sharp
cold. He dug his hands deeper into his pockets, clenching and unclenching his
fingers to heat them with some blood flow. He had never imagined winters to be
this way. They were always portrayed as beautiful, white snow-capped scenery
with people in pretty winter coats and scarves, laughing and playing in frozen solitude.
Instead, he found it out to be dry, harsh, with a searing sense of reproach
toward anyone who dared to stand before it. The winds that escaped into the
collar of his jacket were edged and they hacked at his skin, making him shiver
like he had been immersed in cold water. It was lonely too. He’d been walking
in circles for over 2 hours around the same 6 buildings, shuffling his feet
over cement, hugging himself tighter with every passing minute. He narrowed his
eyes and gritted his teeth, pushed against the winds. His body only wanted to
be inside again, his mind however, refused to comply. Every now and then, he’d
sneeze making his entire body convulse into a jittering bag of bones. But he
kept on walking. There was something so hateful in that weather that translated
his self-loathing for him. He need not despise himself; the seasons were doing
it for him. Something bitter stirred
inside his mind, something to match the lack of warmth in the air. He wanted to
be home so bad. He only wanted to climb into his double bed under his window
that let in the sun and birdsong each morning. He closed his eyes for a moment,
and sought the sun’s yellow light. First there was nothing, his mind was dark
and blank. Then slowly a shimmer of pale light convalesced into a bright
burning yellow fire.
He opened his eyes slowly. The pasty cream coloured ceiling
patched and burnt was the background of his focus. The periphery of his vision
was sparkling bright. Turning his head he noticed everything was tainted golden
sepia. He heard birds! It was morning, he smiled. He was oddly aware that his
entire body looked golden. Rolling his eyes to the back of his head, he was
blinded by the light filtering in from the window, onto his hair, his face, his
body and what he believed, his soul too. He had no memory of his dreams, but
was certain they’d been pleasant. He rose slowly and deliberately enjoying the
awakening of his muscles and bones. His favourite sheets slithered off his
legs, his favourite painting hung on the wall to his right, and the table
before him was just as chaotic as he’d left it. Stretching in bed, he yawned
and closed his mouth in a goofy grin, not different from the ones he’d seen
make as a child in photographs. He felt ready to start a new day and hopped off
the bed. He rushed to his door and swung it open. He grinned again. The dining
room was flooded with that gorgeous golden light; it made even the dullest
object sparkle. He smelt food on the table and guessed there was even more food
to come. He ran into the kitchen and hugged whatever figure stood in front of
the stove from behind. He clutched it
tightly and murmured his thanks. There was no response. Something felt out of
place about his. He stepped back to get a proper view of whom he’d hugged. It
wasn’t mother, it wasn’t anything at all. There was no one there. Then whom had
he hugged? He heard his lover call from the living room. Thoughts of his
mystery mother dissipated and rushed to the other end of the house, smiling
idiotically once again. He heard echoes of his name, and teasing laughter which
he followed mechanically. The voice led him to the drawing room and then
stopped. He looked frantically around the room and saw nobody. On the table in
front of him was a crystal ashtray, with a half lit cigarette breathing wisps
of smoke into the room, one glowing end flashing red, orange, yellow and then
black. Something rose and fell in his
chest. He fell silent and walked out the front door.
The road was paved with dried leaves, bold blocks of
sunburnt orange that crunched underneath his feet. As he walked, he passed
under the shadow of a tree, temporarily banishing the bright glow on his skin.
As he passed out from under the shadow, the glow did not return. He looked up
and saw the sun had concealed itself in astonishingly grey clouds. He looked
back down at the tar and kept on walking. He could not remember how much time
had passed when he looked up again, it was cold now, and he was back where he
had begun; cement, six buildings, circles. He clutched himself for a minute and
stopped. He closed his eyes again, concentrating hard.
A minute later he
opened them and looked around:
Cement, six buildings, circles.
