Cold

Cold

A Story by CompellingComposer
"

A girl being consumed by an invisible chill...

"
It began in my fingers. The tips of them an icy blue and purple. They were bittering, teeth chatteringly cold. I was being frozen alive and no one cold even see it. It didn't hurt. I was so numb, so deep and lost, I couldn't even feel it.

It began with the morning Veronica didn't wake up. To everyone it was a horrid scene. The crimson sheets, the blood crusty in her light brown hair, her gown ripped and torn. My sister had a mental illness, my parents told me. Schizophrenia, they told me. She heard voices in her head, saw things no one else did. They were real to her. She belived them. She felt them. They didn't want me to know, afraid that I would look at my eldest sister as strange and weird and wrong. Afraid of how I would handle it. I looked at my aching fingers as they told me this. I did this so they would see them as they told me about how Veronica must've had an "episode" last night and destroyed herself in the process. Didn't they see how cold I was?

The next day I felt it creep up to my elbows. It only made it halfway there, though. I didn't go to school that day, either. My parents kept me at home, wanting me to have some alone time to grieve even though I told them I was fine. I stared at my piano for quite some time, admiring it's polished, shining wood and black and white keys. I sat at the bench looking through my sheet music, trying to pick the perfect song to play. Fur Elise by Beethoven, Veronica's favorite. I placed my fingers on the correct keys, trying to force myself to begin. Once I had gained the courage and strength to press the first key, I heard a noise. A crumbing, snapping sound that made me feel sick. I looked down and saw a huge crater in my arm. I could see straight through it to the the floor. Terrified, I fell backward, the piano bench tumbling over, and hit my head on the floor. I heard a rushing of footsteps.

" Are you okay, Becca?" my mother asked, helping me to my feet.

" Uh, yeah, yeah," I responded. I brushed my mother's hand off my icy, frosted arm. I looked at it, planning to show her the hole, but it was gone. It had just disappeared, just like that. As well as the ice. It had all just left, but I was still freezing. "Did it melt?" I whispered to myself.

My mother, obviously not hearing what I had spoken, said, "Did you hurt your arm?" I told her once again that I was fine and I wasn't hurt. She must've gotten the hint that I wanted to be alone, so she left the room, sobbing silently. I shook my head apathetically and return to my piano.

The very next week I layed in Veronica's bed. A tiny voice in the back of my head tried to speak through my voice and told me to. There were fresh, crisp, new sheets on her bed that no one had used. I didn't move. I couldn't. The ice was almost done consuming me. From the bottom of my feet to my chin I was covered. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.

"Fire. You need fire, Becca." The voice was raspy and tired. It was ill.

"Warmth. Fire. Yes." I mouthed, unable to speak. I slowly got up and pain shot through my like a speeding bullet. I cried out a terrible cry as tears dribbled down my cheek.

"Now, Becca! Quit wasting time!"

I moved quickly, my bones creaking, the ice making an awful screeching sound until I go to the kitchen. I quickly search through every cabinet and shelf until I found it.

My fathers matches.

I shuffled over into the dining room. The ice was becoming thicker and stronger, creeping up to my lips.

"Faster!" it screamed.

"I can't!" I attempted to say, but it only came out as a pitiful squeek.

I struck the match until I saw the spark turn into a flame and tossed it into our family's grand fire place.

I jumped in and was no longer cold. Never again. 

© 2011 CompellingComposer


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Wow... That was awesome. I'm not one with words when it comes to giving feedback, but that was very good. Schizophrenia as well? Took me awhile to catch on, but I got it once it said what it did about her arm.

Posted 9 Years Ago


Powerful, gripping & provocative. This is very sincere & tragic work. What else can I say...keep writing.

Posted 9 Years Ago



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Added on September 13, 2011
Last Updated on September 13, 2011

Author

CompellingComposer
CompellingComposer

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About
My name is Megan and I have been writing poems since 4th grade and stories since 6th. I'm very, very young, as I've noticed from the ages of my fellow writers on this site. Yes, I am only 13, but writ.. more..

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