She's not coming back.

The wind howls as if it ran out of words to say. It’s been too calm, too polite, so now the only way it’s getting its point across is if it physically screams into my ear. There’s a certain type of silence that echoes everywhere else. Even when the wind is screaming right at me, my body zones in only to the silence.

It’s empty. The cabin is empty and it has been for four hours now, I think. She’s not coming back. 

There are three places my eyes flit across to. 

A) The phone. It’s an old rotary dial telephone that’s been here for far too long. It used to be pink, but now all the dust in the air has piled up and apparently magnetized to that one appliance. It’s caked with a layer of dust so heavy I’m afraid of how badly I’ll sneeze if I do lift up the handle and hold the phone to my ear. Not that anyone will call anyways. There’s no phone service here.

B) The door. It’s a pretty straight forward place to be looking at. The wood doesn’t insulate the heat very well, but at least there aren’t any huge gaping holes. I’m separated by the icy winter wonderland out there and I hope that it stays. There’s a little window at the top of the door, but it’s so incredibly cold outside that the glass has completely frosted up. Nothing is visible anymore, at least nothing of the outside to me. 

C) The fireplace. It’s a real fireplace, a wood burning one that leads up to the chimney. The fire’s been burning for a while now, and it doesn’t look like it’s dying anytime soon, but there’s still not enough heat. I’m scared I can sit in the fire and still not feel warm enough. There’s no more wood to burn here. Soon enough, I need to look for some old books or paper to feed the fire. It’s cold in here. I’m scared it won’t be warm enough for me soon.

The door hasn’t moved, hasn’t opened, since she left those hours ago. Now I’m scared to open it or even touch it because I have this vision of her returning and I don’t want myself to interrupt the vision. Also, perhaps even worse, I’m too cold to move. 

There aren’t that many blankets and comforters in this cabin, but I’ve made do with all I have. I’m sitting approximately two feet away from the fireplace and I’m curled up in four layers of clothing and three layers of blankets. I have two pairs of socks on and missing gloves, but my hands are cuddled nicely against each other under my layers. 

The thing this cabin is missing is a clock. I looked around a lot, and after the power for the microwave went off, I realized I no longer had any sense of telling time. I don’t have any battery left in my cell phone and my laptop, and I never wear watches either. 

It’s been dark outside for a long time now, which helps me in that at least I know it’s nighttime. However, it really doesn’t calm me in the fact that it’s nighttime, as anything really could happen. 

At first, I counted the seconds, because I felt that some sense of order amongst all the chaos would be good for me. Then, as the numbers kept getting larger and larger, I realized I might physically combust from all the counting. Each syllable running out of my lips burned my entire body until eventually, I could no longer fathom another murmur of noise leaving my body. 

I’ve been good at that. The Silence. Listening to nothing but the silence of the door not opening. It’s only now that I’m hearing the first noise I’ve heard in four hours, or at least I think it’s four hours. It’s my stomach grumbling, reminding me that it hasn’t got a chance to digest any sort of nutrition. It’s lonely, just like me. I wish I have the power to stand up, to go to the kitchen cabinet and pick out a packet of crackers, or a can of tuna, or even a sip of water from the tap before it freezes, but I can guess it’s already done so. 

I try not to think about it too much, so my ears go back and forth to my three things again. We have five senses, I’m only trying to use this one: sight. 

Phone.

Door. 

Fireplace.

Phone.

Door.

Fireplace.

Phone.

Door.

Sarah.

Sarah? 

My eyes blink, the fastest movement my body has responded in hours. They take a while to adjust and refocus, but when they do, I’m stunned. I’m disappointed. There is no Sarah. She’s not coming back. 

I think it may be time to readjust my plans, if my eyes are failing me, it won’t be long until all my other senses do too. I’m already starving and cold and hearing things, what else is new?

What’s next on the list is the fireplace, so I bring my eyes there, even when it feels like I have to physically drag them there. The fire is red, and orange, and a little bit blue, but the blue might just be the reflection of light bouncing across the room. My eyes droop a little bit by bit, and I pinch myself to stay away. Really though, I imagine pinching myself to stay awake. I’m too tired to make even the briefest of hand motions. 

I’m watching the fire, and it’s really more exciting than staring at the door. The door is completely snow. I know it’s windy and snowing outside, but I can’t see anything through the now opaque window. Instead, the fire is alive. Even when it’s dying bit by bit, it’s dancing with life. It’s colorful. It moves against and with the wind. It doesn’t need any instructions. It does pirouettes in the rain. It taps without tap shoes. It waltzes with no partner and now music. 

I think I’m jealous of the fire, and it stopped being because of its warmth. I’m jealous because it’s happy and dancing and pays no recognition to the coldness it’s surrounded by. It doesn’t care that she’s not coming back. Maybe it never had her in the first place. I’m angry now. Jealousy is a crazy and intense feeling. I’m angry because the fire gets to dance and I can’t dance with it. I’m angry because the fire feels no pain, at least not pain to this level. It hurts so badly. Not just the cold but Sarah’s missing presence. 

I watch the fire get smaller and smaller, and I know I have to feed it more before it dies completely. There’s my only vantage point, that I can take care of it and choose to be responsible for its death. If I don’t move and get it more fuel, it’ll no longer dance. I get to take that away from it. Fuck jealously and the green-eyed monster. She’s not coming back. Neither is this fire.

I’m watching it get closer and closer to the floor. It’s dying, piece by piece. I find a certain joy in its death. I wonder if it’s painful if it hurts as much as I’m hurting. I find comfort in knowing my eyes are red, orange, and a little bit blue. It’s nice to have a little unity in our colors. 

I know I shouldn’t start counting again, but it is so tempting to do so. I count in my head this time because I still can’t interrupt the silence. It doesn’t take more than fifty-three for it to die completely. In its last moments, it was almost as if it got bigger before it fell. 

Now all I can smell is smoke. The burning of the wood is finally hitting my nose and it's refreshing against the cold. I can hear the wind. I can taste the air. I can see the blue. I can feel. Oh god. OH GOD. I can no longer feel.

No.

No.

No.

I was wrong. There was never a vantage point. I was responsible for the death of the fire, but the fire was responsible for the death of me. She stopped dancing. So did I. She’s not coming back. The fire is not coming back. I am not coming back.