Nevermore

“Why do I never listen?” I said out loud as fresh snow tumbled down the dark heavens. Through my flashlight, I could see my words and breath form mists as it met the chilling air. The local weather man said to stay in doors as this would be the coldest night in Manifest’s history. But then again, Manifest was a tiny boring town so the folks here dubbed everything as a first. 

“Oh, he is the first Asian in town. Oh, the first to drink a milkshake out in the cold. I can go on and on,” I sniffled as the snot tried to run down my nose until it froze grossly on top of my upper lip. John and I were supposedly the first gay interracial couple in town. We lived together, but we’re just friends from college. Both struggling writers trying to make it. I guess the town made the conclusion because we wore matching clothes most of the time. You believe what you want to believe, right? The truth is, we couldn’t afford rent by ourselves even if the rent was cheap in Manifest. So we lived together. We matched only because it was a “buy one take the same one deal” I found in an obscure mall outside of town. For the winter, we wore matching yellow winter jackets and yellow beanies. They were ugly, but they were cheap and super warm. We moved to Manifest to get away from all the distractions that prevented us from writing. So, aside from the gossip, we eliminated most of the excuses that prevented us from writing. There was really nothing to do in this town but write. 

John had almost completed his book about the stages of mourning and depression. He was not a psychologist, but he wanted to write about his experience of loss when his father died in a car accident a few months ago. His father was reconnecting with their side of the family in Poland when the tragedy occurred. John was close to his father, and I could tell he still mourned him.

As for my book, I’m halfway through the supernatural story of a hero and his adventures in the afterlife. My parents came from Asia. They used to tell me stories of magical beasts particular in their region and about the fairy mark; a mole really, on my forehead. So, I wrote what I knew. I struggled for months with the protagonist’s name though. Maybe Cornelius is a good name?  But my writing teacher in college did not love the name. Although she had not read the story either. Maybe I should stick it to her and put Cornelius?  

“This is ridiculous!” I shouted in frustration. Why was I out again in this cold night? Oh, Cookie, John’s dog, ran towards the woods to chase a rabbit.  Cookie previously belonged to John’s father, so I knew how important the dog was to John. So when the half Labrador and half German Shepherd went crazy over the rabbit, I didn’t hesitate to chase after the mutt. John and I split up in the woods when we couldn’t figure out which way the dog went. If only Cookie obeyed John’s command to stop.  But either the rabbit was too enticing or Cookie hadn’t acknowledged John as his master yet.  

My bones began to ache. Seriously, this air penetrates and bites at my very marrow. Which surprised me because the winter clothes were warm at the beginning. The chill seemed to have won over the ugly jacket. The cold made me feel like a brittle old man. Being alone in the woods made me think of my dad. He died from cancer ten years ago. "Nasty disease", I heard myself utter. My dad told me to wear my shirt inside out if ever I got lost in a forest. Apparently, reversing my shirt was a powerful amulet against prankster spirits. I’m not lost dad, but thank you.

The mists from my breath grew thicker as I labored to go through the thickening snow. My feet sank an inch or two as I look for the dog. My eyes hurt. Maybe their frozen? F,  I saw icicles forming in my eyelashes. I should go back?  The mists from my breath grew thinner. Getting warmer? I wondered before falling face down into the snow.

I got up. The snow continued to fall. But it had gone warmer as I didn’t feel the cold anymore. My body had always been quick to adapt in any environment. Since I’m warm, then might as well continue to look for Cookie. Wait, I should call John.  I pressed forward and whipped out my cellphone from my yellow jacket.  Seriously?  The blank screen mocked me. I stopped walking after my many failed attempts to turn the phone on. Piece of junk.  I looked up to survey my surroundings. Everything looked familiar but different. Everything looked bright. What time did Cookie run away?  I looked at my watch and it showed 11:17pm. What?  I tapped on it and realized that it stopped working at 11:17pm. A sense of relief came over me but I don’t know why. Another piece of junk. Maybe Cookie’s back home. I turned around trying to find my way. I looked to retrace my footsteps but there were none. Dang snow, I thought. It was common for one’s footsteps to get covered and disappear during a new round of fresh snowfall. 

“I was moving forward all the time, so home is back,” I said pointing. The way home was easy enough. I did not have the labored misty breath, and I wasn’t cold nor warm. As I continued walking, I noticed someone on the forest floor. Yellow jacket and beanie? John! He laid chest down and motionless. I ran as fast as I could. Every second counted in a rescue. At least that’s what I thought while watching all those tv crime dramas. 

Maybe it was adrenaline, but I was there in a flash. He faced the other way. I reached out to feel his pulse, but my arm stopped midway. My body shook as I recognized the familiar Asian face, a mole on the forehead, laying on the ground. “No!” I shouted, but no one heard me.  Nevermore.