Frozen in Snow

The footprints in the ground are the most noticeable part of it all.

Being in a snowy wasteland, every step is imprinted on the ground. No matter how much time passes, the snow never covers them. Every step over the years from my cabin, the forest, and the fishing hole are all on the ground. The trails make it easy to know where I’ve gone but also are a horrible reminder. A reminder of how alone I truly am here.

I don’t remember how I got here, although I don’t remember much in general. Waking up alone in the cabin for the first time was the hardest, but it hardly got easier from there. When I first awoke, the wooden walls of the simple, shoddy cabin felt so familiar yet foreign. Hoping to catch my bearings, I had left to see where I was. When I left then the snow on the ground was pristine and unbothered for as far as I could see. It glowed faintly from the moonlight. It was an astonishing scene which was only amplified by the snow hanging, unmoving, in the air. I could bat away snowflakes that would never hit the ground and they would stay wherever I put them. It was beautiful and it was horrifying.

I tried to run away. I ran into the woods to find some way out of the nightmare I was trapped in. It was dark and cold. No matter how far I ran I got nowhere. Just more trees, more floating snow. Eventually, when the cold began to overtake me, I followed my footprints back to the cabin to start a fire.

I tried to keep track of how long I was here at first. Tracked the days by my sleep cycles instead of the sun and moon. With time my sleep became inconsistent, and I could never tell if I had been asleep for an hour or eight. I got to 77 days before I gave up.

Knowing there was no way for me to leave, I made a life for myself. It is a simple one with a routine to keep me sane. Instead of my inconsistent sleep schedule, I use the height of the fire to keep track of the non-existent time.

I wake up to an almost dead fire and put the remaining logs in to keep the cabin warm. The snow is frozen still but the fire roars on.

After tending to the fire, I grab the sled, ax, and fishing pole that were in the cabin when I first came here. I follow the trail to the forest and cut enough firewood to last me the rest of the cycle. Maybe if I’m here long enough I will one day cut down the whole forest.

From the forest, I walk through my footsteps to the fishing hole and drop a line in. It’s a small hole but it’s enough for me to fish in. Despite everything being frozen in time, the fish swim freely. It’s as if everything under the thick layer of ice is immune to the curse that has befallen the land above it. Looking into my reflection in the water, I know that I am not entirely immune myself. My beard is always the same length and never grows any grayer than the few strands that were already there.

I start a small fire a way away from the water with some of the firewood to cook the first fish I catch. After eating that and catching a few more, I headed back to the cabin with my firewood and fish.

I refuel the fire and then sit at the desk in the cabin. I don’t think I was much of a writer before, but I became one out of necessity. There were no books in the cabin to keep my mind occupied, only paper and pencils. I built whole worlds with those pencils. Better worlds, happier ones. With more people in them than I probably ever knew. It’s an escape from the horrid world I find myself in. I mostly write short stories, but now and then I write letters.

Despite remembering very little from before my life started at the cabin, one thing always stuck with me. A name.

Cynthia.

Although I don’t know who she was, I know she was important. She was someone I loved in a way I could never place. I remember the feeling of being in love with someone romantically and the love I felt for friends. But this is different. A feeling of love I can’t put a definition to, only a name.

I would write letters to her whenever I ran out of stories. They are mostly simple and vague due to my lack of any real knowledge about her. But she’s a comfort to me. A colorful light of hope in the dark and blank snowy wasteland.

After my stories and letters were written I put more wood in the fire one last time and ate the remaining fish before going to sleep.

Then I do it all again.

Wake up. Refuel the fire. Chop firewood. Fish. Eat. Write. Refuel the fire. Eat. Sleep.

In a never-ending cycle.

Wake up. Refuel the fire. Chop firewood. Fish. Eat. Write. Refuel the fire. Eat. Sleep.

For forever.

Wake up. Refuel the fire. Chop firewood. Fish. Eat. Write. Refuel the fire. Eat. Sleep.

I can’t do this anymore.

Wake up. Refuel the fire. Wake up. Chop firewood. Wake up. Fish. Wake up. Eat. Wake up. Write. Wake up. Refuel the fire. Wake up. Eat. Wake up. Sleep. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up.

I wake up to an almost dead fire and put the remaining logs in to keep the cabin warm. The snow is frozen still but the fire roars on.

After tending to the fire, I grab the ax that was in the cabin when I first came here. I don’t follow the trail to the forest. I won’t be here long enough to cut down the whole forest anyway.

I walk through my footsteps to the fishing hole. It’s a small hole but it’s enough for me to fish in. Despite everything being frozen in time, the fish swim freely. It’s as if everything under the thick layer of ice is immune to the curse that has befallen the land above it. Everything under the ice grows and changes. Everything under the ice lives. Everything under the ice dies.

I swing my ax down by the fishing hole, cracking the ice and making the hole bigger. I don’t need it that much larger, just a little bit. I swing up and bring the ax back down over and over and over again. If the moon ever moved in the sky, it would have gone down by now.

I froze mid-swing and took the time to appreciate my work. The hole is considerably larger than before. I let the ax drop into the dark water with a splash.

I walk to the remains of my small cooking fire from the days before. I sit down next to it one last time as I take a letter from the pocket of my coat. It’s the last thing I wrote. I read over it one last time. It’s not perfect, but it doesn’t need to be. No one will read it anyway. I put the letter back in my coat as I take it off. I leave it by the fire and walk back to the fishing hole.

I don’t stand by the edge for long before I walk in.

The water is freezing as it surrounds me. I panic at the tight, burning feeling in my chest as I’m unable to breathe. I claw at the ice above me. I can’t get out. I can’t escape. I’ll never get out of here. I was never going to.

As the cold began to overtake me, I felt almost calm. The suffocation wasn’t pleasant, but I could accept it. It wouldn’t last much longer.

As I allowed the water to overtake me, my thoughts drifted once more to Cynthia. It was a shame I could never get to know her more than I had. I disappeared from her life too early for her to remember me. The thing that I am most sad about as I drown is that I never got the chance to see my daughter grow up.

Dear Cynthia,

I am sorry I can’t be with you now.

Living alone in a frozen hell has made me appreciate life in a way I never would have otherwise. Not the life I have, but the life I did. I don’t remember much from before the cabin, but I’m sure it was normal. A life filled with hardship but also accomplishments. A life with so much sadness but also joy. A life with meaning, no matter how insignificant that meaning seemed to be.

I have lived all alone for longer than I know. When every time you wake up, everything looks the same and you do the same things you did before, life loses everything. Joy, sadness, fear, excitement, meaning. It leaves you feeling nothing but an empty void. Never live like that. I know that even in the ever-changing world you live in, monotony is such a common occurrence. Wake up, eat, work, sleep, repeat. It will drain your soul like nothing else. Do not allow yourself to become the shell of a person walking through the same steps you walk in every day. Don’t just be alive. Have a life.

I confess I do not remember who you are. This place has taken every memory I have from before it except for your name. But, even so, I know that I have and will always love you. I hope that in death I will remember more than just your name.

Love, Jason