Estimated reading time — 7 minutes
I’m so cold. So very cold. There is no warmth left in this room.
I suppose I should start at the beginning. It started about 2 weeks ago, back when I could still see the sun. I live alone, my parents kicked me out after I dropped out of high school…I always hated high school; the teachers, the kids, all of them…Every last one. They don’t understand you, nor will they ever. Friends…I scoff at the idea, they’re just people who act like they care, but turn around to stab you in the back. Deplorable.
As you can tell, I’m not a people person.
Although maybe it wasn’t their fault, considering my sickness.
Oh, did I not mention my sickness? I guess I spaced it. I’ve always had serious mental problems; as far back as I can remember. I get these…weird images in my head. Sick images…images of murder, sickness, and war. From what I’ve been told by people around me when I’ve had my ‘episodes’, mostly teachers, I spasm and throw myself to the floor, scratching and writhing at everything around me screaming all the while. Of course I don’t remember it, all I remember is the images…I doubt I will ever get any of them out of my mind. These ignorant teachers thought I was merely acting out, seeking attention as it were, as did my classmates. I hated them and they hated me, leading to many fights at school. I even sent a few kids into the hospital.
Ah, my youth.
I live in a dingy rental home in the slums of an unimportant city. My parents don’t visit me anymore, and none of my neighbors can stand being around me for more than a few moments. Nobody ever cared about me and nobody ever will, and I’m content with that.
Back to my current predicament; it was only last month when I saw a doctor about my episodes. He diagnosed me with a wide array of mental disorders, none of which I bothered to ask what they meant; all I knew was that I needed pills and he could give me some. I remember him handing me 3 or 4 bottles of pills or various shapes and colors, but I didn’t take them right away. I waited, thinking maybe, just maybe the images were caused by a troubled childhood, and maybe I had matured out of it, but sure enough in a few days, they came back. Suicide, bombings, and genocide this time. My mind was filled to the brim with disturbing, haunting images; these were some of the worst yet. I was already sobbing in the fetal position by the time my mind comprehended that I might be able to stop this. I couldn’t open my eyes, I didn’t want to see anymore. I remember crawling on my side towards the bathroom, shakily standing up and spilling open my medicine cabinet, spilling the assorted products on the floor. I grasped blindly for the unfamiliar shape of pill bottles, and soon found them. I ripped them open and threw them into my mouth, spilling many on the floor. I collapsed onto the cold tile, losing consciousness. This was a first.
Then, I woke up in my bed. I must’ve thought to myself that I got up and walked into bed, I just didn’t remember it. Maybe. Then it began: I was cold. With my heavy comforter, one of the few things I had invested my small amount of spare money into, should have kept me warm. I always found solace in sleep. I got up and walked into the living room and turned on my TV. Cable was out, should have known. How long had it been since I paid my bills? Still cold, I thought to myself. I walked over to the thermostat and cranked it up, hearing that old familiar sound of the heater pumping warm air. I sat back down, but 15 minutes went by, and I still was cold. I walked over to the heat vent, placing my hand over it; I couldn’t feel any warmth, I couldn’t feel any air coming from the vent, but I could definitely hear it. Ah, my bills, no wonder there was no heat. I could only feel the cold grate of the vent. But then why could I hear it pumping throughout the room?
Might as well call my landlord, I thought to myself, picking up the phone. Dead. “Doesn’t anything in this hell hole work?” I distinctly remember asking myself. It was one of the last things I remember saying out loud. How was I to know what was happening? I walked outside, I don’t remember if it was to grab the morning paper or perhaps to soak up some rays from the sun, but it was at this time I knew something was wrong. It was dead outside. I’m talking Sunday morning in the winter at 4:00 in the morning dead. There was no lights on in the houses, nobody walking outside, no noise. The silence was deafening, cliché as it sounds. I slowly walked back in, afraid to disrupt the perfect silence by too loud of a step. I hadn’t realized till I was back inside, but it was much colder outside then in.
The rest of the day went per usual, watching DVD’s for hours and reading. Only difference was the cold, which by my best efforts I could not stop. Then I went to bed, one of my last moments of peace, even though there was no warmth to be had. The next morning I woke up, against the blaring noise of my alarm clock. Work? No, much too cold. I put my hand on the dresser to turn the alarm clock when I felt it. Searing pain in my palm, my hand lurched off the dresser, bits of flesh ripping off. Cradling my hand under my armpit for warmth, I looked at the dresser. It was covered in a fine layer of frost. No, it wasn’t frost. It was too perfect. It was like….ice, like perfect ice. No cracks, no imperfections; completely perfect ice, nearly covering the entire dresser. Little bits of my skin and flesh were on the top, and a small amount of warm blood dripped from my palm. The warmth made me shiver, I had been so used to the cold of my house. Obviously I was disturbed. I don’t remember spilling a glass of water…no, definitely I hadn’t. I walked out of my room and went to check outside, maybe I could casually talk to one of my neighbors of the cold. Who was I kidding, they would probably throw their gardening item of choice at me and walk inside. Still, I needed to know why it was so cold. I placed my hand on the knob and jumped back. Frozen. I grabbed my comforter and gripped the knob, twisting with all my might. Nothing, not a budge. I threw myself against the door, trying to force it open. Luckily, my poor run-down house had a pretty flimsy door. it flew open and I stumbled outside.
Then I realized I couldn’t move.
My right shoe, the only shoe touching the sidewalk, was frozen to the ground. I could hear the sound of the ice forming the outline of my footprint along the ground. Alarmed, I pulled with all my might, barely ripping my foot free, and fell back inside. There was no wind, and yet the outside brought ghastly cold into my home, even the icy temperature of my house was better than the feeling of cold death outside. I stood up and slammed the door shut, leaving my shoe.
That was the last time I ever went outside.
Since then, everyday has been constant torment. The cold…my god its unbearable. Everyday a little bit more of my home is covered with that perfect ice…less and less of my few commodities can I use. My bed froze solid 2 days ago. Ive resorted to sleeping in the corner of my living room, but soon that wore thin, as my TV, couch, and walls were covered in ice. I didn’t eat for the first few days, terrified. Soon though, I realized I needed nourishment and ran to my fridge. I opened, and felt like a complete moron. How could I any of my food be edible? A fridge storing food at cold temperatures…in a home well below 0 Degrees. Smart. The food, fruits, meats, cheeses, about all I had left were covered in at least in inch of that clear, perfect ice. Almost like glass containers. I would spend hours chipping away at it, then stuffing the remains in my mouth, hoping I could survive just a little longer on the scraps.
Yesterday, my entire upstairs become covered in the ice. I can’t even reach my fridge, much less my door. I gave hope on human contact days ago. In the basement I fled, knowing I couldn’t avoid it anymore.
And finally, we’ve come to today. It’s coating the stairs, and the walls around me are closing in with the ice. I stopped shivering long ago, even my body realized that it’s over, my body systems and organs shutting down one by one. So here I am; trapped in the last bit of my home, my world, not covered in that perfect killer. I’m huddled into the fetal position, retelling this story again and again to myself. The ice is now literally just a few inches away. Huh. I never thought about it, but I’ve never actually watched the ice grow. It’s just covering more space every time I check. I look down and see the ice at my toes. Clever, while I was busy thinking of the ice never moving, it moves.
I’m fading in and out of consciousness, and every time I awake, I slip more and more into the cold embrace of death. Hah. I laugh mildly in my head at my ironic statement. My legs are now enveloped in the ice. At least there is no more running, no more trying to survive. I’m trying to smile but the muscles in my face won’t respond. The ice is now over my stomach and around my arms. I take solace in the fact that my eyes, and more so my mind will be the last to go. Oh, now it’s up to my chin. With the final movements of my eyes, I glance around at my glass coffin. So this is how it ends. My eyes fall back, looking straight ahead. No longer do I feel anything, the ice must be everywhere now.
I’m suddenly remembering the time I sent a kid to the hospital in a 2 week coma.
I pray to god that this is enough for St. Peter to reject my application into Heaven.
I hear Hell is much warmer.
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