The Death of Winter

The cabin was empty. No sounds could be heard but the faint whispers of a gentle, winter wind much like a child's laughter, through the open cabin door. The wood creaked slightly under the weight of my footsteps, slow and sure footed. Unable to see anything, I crept closer as my vision cleared. The room seemed anew, as if no one had ever stepped foot here; as if it's inhabitants were mere ghosts. The once warm room was now cold, candle wax dried up on the table, the dead ashes of a burning fire a reminder of times spent. Time we won't get back. I carry on through the dark, my feet moving of their own accord, as if this was a path I had walked endlessly in another life. My fingers trailed along empty frames that line the wall, going up the staircase, disturbing the settled dust that had fallen.

I should get out of here. Go far away from this place and never look back. 

I stopped in front of a white door. It’s the only room closed off, the door shut unlike the rest of the cabin. The handle was stiff and cool to my touch and I pushed the door open. With a groan the old wood gave in; I stepped inside. The air turned icy as the once calm wind wails through the open window making the sheer slips of fabric that act as makeshift curtains thrash around, the winter storm outside begging for attention. This room, unlike the rest of the cabin, had been left a mess. Broken pieces of wood lay in a pile on the floor, mixing together with brightly coloured, broken plastic. The red, blue and green pieces look bizarre against the soft grey carpet and the pale blue walls. It was as if the winter storm flew in through the window, swept up remnants of a lost life, and threw it all onto the floor. 

I closed the window, shutting out the bawling storm, ignoring its cries of discomfort. The winter sun rises, its bright sunlight still shines through, onto the white painted windowsill. This was free of any dust, kept clean from being lost in time, and I rest my hands as I look towards the snowy, barren land outside. My calloused fingers run across glossy paper; pictures. Hesitating, I take a closer look. 

They showed memories of a forgotten past, the smiles on strangers foreign to me; I don’t know how happiness feels anymore. Snow days wrapped in woolly scarves and gloves, both damp with snow that looked like icing sugar had been thrown all over them. Innocent laughter joined faces flush with warmth and love, and cocoa powder dripping from their faces. Gingerbread on a plate, with a chubby little hand sneaking one first. Photographs of a family, one happy and full of life. My vision becomes blurry, my cheeks wet; the pictures are disrupted now. Large beads fall from my eyes onto the memories clutched in my hands. 

I can’t stay here anymore. I can’t stay living amongst the dead. 

So I ran. Back down the stairs, through the door and away from the cabin. My tears felt frozen against my skin, meeting snowflakes from the weeping sky above. My legs ache from the cold, trudging through a fresh blanket of snow, but I won’t stop. I can’t let them catch up to me. I race down the hillside, my eyes only seeing white. White everywhere, as if the storm wanted to erase the past, covering it all in cloak of ice and death. Yet even Mother Nature knows the lessons of the past, and how they create the future. 

I was too late. I am always too late. 

The virgin white snow was stained crimson. Dark red droplets lined the white path ahead, staining the snow so deep, even the howl of the storm couldn’t erase it. The blood drains from my face; I start running. Faster and faster, my feet tripping over invisible tree roots, the snow hiding them from view. 

Faster and faster, if I am fast enough maybe I can get there on time.

No one can outrun memories. No one can outrun dying. Many things in this world are temporary, except for Death. Time is limited, forever never achieved. 

Still, I try. The bloodstains on the ground, scattered like the breadcrumbs Hansel and Gretel used to get back home, trail off to a stop, forcing me to halt suddenly. 

The snow storm has calmed slowly, and I watch the sun shine harshly, brightly onto the lake’s surface. It’s frozen, just like I am. The ice glitters, sparkling silver stars on the Earth’s surface, it’s all you can see from there, except for the stranger on the snow. She sits there radiant in the light. Her dark brown eyes turn to honey, her skin turns to gold.

I should go back to the cabin. I should run far away from here, start a new life. 

My feet stay stuck in snow. The winter wind envelopes me, the short hairs on the back of my neck stand tall, goose bumps form on my arms. It kisses my cheek, trying to dry my freezing tears, before pushing me forward, towards the golden girl. I stumble across, my feet numb and losing grip on the uneven ground. 

I sit down next to her. Her left side of her torso is red all over, blood dripping down; her stitches have come undone. The red looks ugly on the soft snow, a mark of pain and hurt. She holds something tightly in her hands, shivering slightly, not from the cold, it never bothered her like it did me. Her face is tearstained like mine, two trails down her face. Honey eyes meet mine, honey eyes the same shade as the one we loved, and we sit there together. 

I cannot run anymore. Not from myself, not from her. We are all we have left. 

Grief and loss demand to be felt, with every aching heartbeat, every pang on your heartstrings. It is buried within your soul, a fraction of you lost and yet not forgotten. 

I haven’t forgotten you yet. 

We watch the morning sun rise higher and higher, its warmth not enough to numb our pain. My frozen hands touch hers, wrapping around the box in her hands. 

“It’s time. Time to say goodbye.” My voice sounds stronger than I feel. 

Her voice betrays her, and she simply nods. 

We take a step to the frozen lake, until one more step and we’re on the ice. 

She shook as she opened the box, lip quivering. I took her numb hands in mine, and together we emptied the dark ashes onto the icy surface. The wind blows gently, turning ashes into dust, making it fall like snowflakes. The sky cries with fresh snow, mourning with us. 

She is with us again. 

“Goodbye, our dear Winter.”