White. All she saw was white. The ground was white, the sky was white, the trees were white. It wasn’t a pretty white, not like the sun was shining on it in the morning when she threw her curtains open in December. It was harsh, like the wind that was cutting at her face, like the wet that seeped through her thin clothes. She was in a void, lost and alone, no one around but the screaming wind.
She was so tired of the bloody colour, white.
Two hours had passed, and she still could find no sign of life. Like, anything. There weren’t even any bloody animals around. She turned back and stormed to the car; it was probably safer in there than it was outside. She turned the key, hoping the glorious sound of an engine would brighten her spirits. No such luck. She rummaged around in the glove compartment for some actual glove – not that anyone actually does that.
Pulling her arms tight over her chest, Blanche huddled in the driver's seat of her little Ford Fiesta. With no food, she knew she would not be able to last long; with no heating, she doubted she would last more than a few hours – and if, for whatever godforsaken reason, something came for her?
Well, there was no point thinking about that now.
She considered her options; one was staying in the car, where she could neither preserve her body heat nor produce more to stop her from freezing to death, with no food or drink (although she supposed that she could use the bloody snow as water): the other was to get out and search for help, for food, for suitable shelter, for anything – at least the walking would keep her blood pumping around her body which in turn would keep her alive, at least for a little bit longer. Neither seemed even remotely pleasant, but at least the latter would keep her alive for longer.
Blanche slid out of the seat and straightened up, slamming the door behind her. Squinting around, she picked out the faintest sliver of a road and marched towards, and then along it, hearing the car bleep as she locked it. She didn’t know why she did that – maybe it was a force of habit.
Trudging down the road, the wind screeching in her ears and ringing around her head, Blanche thought back; where had she gone wrong? Was it that left turn she took instead of the right? Was it listening to that pizza boy back in town? Or was it making the decision to do something for herself, for once in her miserable life?
She decided to blame the pizza boy.