Snowblind

It was the winter of 2074, and the coldest day in the history of Province.
Silent Death had passed her gaze over the once fair landscape, stripping the trees of their
decorative robes, 'till they were half dead with the shame of it; high above, the wisp's pity had expressed
itself in the powdered white cloth now spread over the naked earth. Horaphorus mourned quietly in the
ravages of once wealthy fields, whilst inside my house, the ashes continued to burn, patiently awaiting
rebirth.
From where I sat, I could hear Einsam making a mess of my kitchen, and I let him, because only
we existed to care any longer, and neither of us truly did. I smiled wryly to myself, and turned my head.
Out of habit, I found myself struggling to make out the old American Flag hanging limply above the
fireplace. Once again, I resisted the urge to take it down and count the stars, just to make sure they were
all still there. I knew its shape as I knew myself, each uneven fiber woven snug from the cloth of soldiers
and dreamers, frayed edges dyed by Times careful hand, and flayed smooth in her final measurements. It
smelt of salt and of red skin and tasted like hickory smoke in November.
Behind the shadow it shed, the ghosts of book titles taunted me with the insidious cheer of wasted
youth and a cold sting of betrayal. Into them I had escaped, and they cared for me, until the danger
passed, and along with it, the ruined buds of my life. I tore my eyes away from their arched, bony spines,
and pretended that the air wasn't bitter with the after taste of regret; it is considerably easier after all these
years of hiding.
I heard, rather than saw the being enter my living room, and I would have been none the wiser to
my company, if I hadnt felt the once familiar sensation of aged rubber clinging to well trodden carpet. I
stiffened, wishing, not for the first time, that I still held the easy grace of earlier years. Or perhaps,
mourning the fact that fear came as easily in the face of the unknown as it once had. My voice did not
shake, nor crack, but it was hard in too many of the wrong place, and soft where immortality had
atrophied into inevitability,

Who are you? Even as I spoke, I felt the words echo back at me in the dusty crevices of my
dormant soul, mocking me sadly for my troubles. Meanwhile, the sounds hung in the air nervously,
fidgeting awkwardly at their own utter inadequacy, because they knew that this time, they would not be
enough.
She was dressed in shadows, but my mind had become drunk with familiarity, and in my sight,
she grew clear and tangible. Her word was the truest lie ever spoken.
You, We both knew that this was not so, had probably never been true, would never be true.
She was a specter, a ghost without a soul, trapped in my house by the guilty chains of a voice unraised,
and therefore, unheard.
I buried you, It was a statement, desperate, nearly pleading. Why now, after all these years? In
peace I had lived, alone, in this ancient tomb, built from scarlet oak and coffin nails, pretending that the
world was as it had always been.
I am not an article of clothing that you can throw away when it doesnt fit you any longer. I am
your skin, and you will never be rid of me. Her jaws moved, but it looked wrong, like the statement was
being spoken before her lips were saying it. I flinched back, away from the words, because in her mouth,
they were tools, neither borrowed nor stolen, but weapons as beautiful and deadly as Damascus steel.
Out of habit, I ran my tongue across the sentence, and each word was bittersweet to the taste, an
intoxicating mixture of rage and passion. There was a lingering sensation of a wild, incomprehensible joy,
but the underlying flavor ached, melancholic to the last syllable.
For a single second, I was six years old, the sky was bluer than summer, and I was choking on the
scent of chlorine and glimpses of roses over run with ladybugs, chilled to the bone by a sudden gust while
I sat beside a pool of water.
A moment later, I was back, frantically trying to patch up the hole in my defenses, a sense of
panic I hadnt fell in nigh twenty years flickering to life in the pit of my chest, a lantern casting light
through the dark. No matter where I turned, there was no land to be seen, no place in which I could find
solid ground.

Why are you here? My voice hummed unevenly, and as I spoke, I curled my toes against the
wooden floorboards, calloused skin scraping lightly over the grain in the areas where the laminate had
worn thin. My fingers had tightened into white knuckled fists, uneven nails catching on the fabric of a
tartan scarf Id been wearing.
"Why are you here? Her voice echoed mine, causing my breath to catch, before pushing
forward.
I belong here. You arent welcome in this house, or in this time. The cold chortle my
counterpart issued was equivalent to having ice water poured on you, and much like in that scenario, it
felt as if my muscles have become stiff and immobile.
Do you? Or have you chosen to believe this? I thought you didnt believe in destiny. I dont. Or
perhaps your paper skeletons have convinced you otherwise? I choked at her words, because they rang
so, in all of truths cruel frankness and brassy beauty, and before I could speak or move, her fingers had
slid over my back, pressing harshly into the upper region of my torso. Pain arced through me, as if my
very skin was burning, but when I lashed out, I hit nothing. Even in the dimness of my vision, I could see
nothing, and I knew she was gone. In a moment of utter exhaustion, I closed my eyes, wishing the world
away, if only for awhile.

I woke with a start, but the reason for it was unknown. My alarm clock hadnt gone off, and its
face read 2:56 am, which was basically way too freakin early to be awake. The room was a shade darker
than pitch black, the sheets clung to my sweaty limbs like lifelines, and I felt unclean deep down in a
private place I hoped would never see the light of day.
When the dream came back to me, I vomited a little in my throat, and waited for the taste of acid
and partially digested food to fade before springing from my bed, and tearing my sable undershirt off.
Instinctively, my hands groped across my back, searching for a sign of scarring or charred skin, and my
soul hit the floor when I felt the microscopic plateau of upraised flesh tingle beneath my fingertips. The

wound resembled a birthmark, and felt like a target. I cast my eyes towards my bookshelves, seeking out
comfort, but they no longer smiled, leering at me. When I looked back, the mark was gone.
I could still feel it though, and it tasted like fire, burning in the battle scars across my wrists and
along my legs, covering almost every inch of my body.
I didnt sleep the entire night, and when the morning came, it brought clouds and the perfume of
petrichor. I took the flag from its pedestal, and oh so carefully, sewed it into my skin, woven snug from
the cloth of soldiers and dreamers, frayed edges dyed by Times careful hand, and flayed smooth in her
final measurements. It smelt of salt and of red skin and tasted like blood in July.