Cold As Ice

It’s so cold I can almost feel my limbs turning to stone. The bitter wind slices up against my face as I pull the thin scarf over my rosy cheeks. The wind carries with it a sprinkle of snow, but even that pricks my skin like hot knives. 

I shuffle through the abandoned streets, thick with a shimmering blanket of snow, my breath clouding the air as I huff. The air is thick and heavy, as if the white storm clouds above me have descended too close and are choking the atmosphere. 

But despite the cold, despite the chill running up my spine and the slushy snow soaking through my boots, I have to keep going. I can’t slow down. I fight my way through the storm, squinting to make out my destination. 

After what seems like hours, but could only be a few minutes, I can make out the small lights in the darkness up ahead signaling the coffee shop. Like a beacon of hope in a terrible world, the lights draw me closer, propelling me to push through the icy world. 

Lungs heaving, feet soaked, face half-frozen, I arrive on the doorstep, almost collapsing against the glass frame. My shoulder knocks the door gently open, and I stumble inside, tracking snow and mud all over the pristine marble floor. 

“I’m so sorry,” I say to the frail old lady behind the counter. “I didn’t mean to track in so much snow.”

“Oh, no matter, child,” she says sweetly, gesturing for me to sit down. “What is a lovely lady like you doing out in this weather?”

“Well…” My throat chokes on the words, on the memory, as she pours me a nice cup of coffee. The warmth seeps into my lungs and gives me strength as I look into her kind eyes. 

“It’s the anniversary of my best friend’s death,” I whisper. The words threaten to shatter me. “We used to come to this coffee shop every Friday. It’s tradition to be here.”

She nods knowingly and sits across from me, sipping on her own cup of tea. 

“That’s horrible to hear, dear,” she replies mournfully. “If you don’t mind me asking, what happened to your friend?”

For a minute or two, the only answer she gets is the howling of the wind and the pounding of snow against the windows. Then I draw my courage together and come up with a half-hearted reply. 

“An accident.” 

“Oh, dear, I’m so sorry. The traffic here is mighty dreadful, even in better weather. Stay as long as you like.”

I nod to her as she stands and disappears behind the counter. My hands swirl the coffee stirrer absentmindedly, my thoughts in a different time, a different place. 

The old woman thought I meant traffic accident, I think sadly. If only she knew. 

But Gina’s death was an accident. Other people might not see it that way, but I do. I’m not some cold hearted monster. I had no choice to do what I did. 

For awhile, I sit listening to the whistle of the wind, drifting alone in a sea of my melencholy thoughts. The coffee warms my chest, but not my spirits. Inside, I’m still frozen. Frozen in shock, as I was that day three years ago, staring at the blood on my hands and crying over a stupid mistake. 

I shake my head, dispelling the thoughts. What a stupid thing to worry about. The deed is done. No one knows. No one saw. And Gina… poor Gina… it wasn’t her fault…

But it wasn’t my fault, either. She was angry, crazy, delusional, and she would’ve done something stupid had I not stopped her. I don’t feel bad for what I did. I only regret that it had to happen. 

Time to move on. It’s been three years, and still I visit this stupid coffee shop. Is it really to honor her memory, or is some part of me still worried that this evidence has been uncovered? Could it be that I simply came here to prove to myself that every piece of Gina’s death and memory is gone, save for the part that lives on in me? 

No matter. Whether I came here for noble reasons or questionable ones, I can’t leave. My feet ache from the snow, my hands are trembling from the cold still. I’m in no shape to walk back to my apartment, so I’m left here. Alone in a coffee shop. Alone with my thoughts. 

My thoughts. That keep circling back to Gina. No matter how hard I try to honor her memory, I can’t help but remember the bad parts, too. Every flash of her bright smile brings back the yelling, the shoving, and the blood. Always the smell of blood. 

Snap out of it! Why can’t I keep my thoughts under control? They’re spiraling worse than they ever have, worse than that cold winter’s day when the light left Gina’s eyes. Maybe that’s it. The weather is almost identical to what is was like when she ran to find me in the snow…

She yelled at me, called me immature, told me I had no right to do what I did. 

I tried to calmly explain my side. To calmly tell her that I was only doing what I thought was right. 

But she wouldn’t have it. She screamed and screamed and pushed me up against the wall, shaking an icicle loose from the roof, that fell and shattered behind her. Her face was livid, and she was shaking. 

I stand up abruptly, pushing the chair from the table. The old lady is still in the back room, so I leave cash on the table and make my way out the door. Even with the cold, I can’t stand being back here. The memories are too bold. The smell of blood is too fresh. 

The cold is worse this time, stinging and biting and slashing at my flesh. I’m in a swirling storm, a hurricane of cold inside and out. Past and present is blending together, crashing and burning and falling apart. I struggle through the snow and collapse against the side of a building a couple blocks down. It’s a moment or two before I realize where I am. It’s the same alleyway where Gina confronted me. 

I fall against the snow and cry, my shoulders shaking with a terrible weight on my chest. It’s all too much, I can’t handle it. I can’t breathe. 

When I finally regain my breath, I look up at the scene, trying to get my bearings. 

And there, in the snow, poking out like a terrible omen, a horrible reminder, is an icicle. Sharp and beautiful, glittering in the snow. 

Just like the one I stabbed through Gina’s heart.