January 1, 1713
Dear Diary,
Cold.
That's all I feel now.
I can feel it seeping through my warm leather coat,
Feel it seeping into the cracks of my room.
There's frost, winding in whirlwinds along the walls,
Icy white tendrils snaking out towards me,
Longing to latch onto life, onto warmth.
Well, they might as well leave the depth of my room.
I'm not warm anymore.
I will never be warm again.
Not since he died.
Not since Jack left us.
I mean, it wasn't his fault. It was mine. I was the one that wanted to ice skate in the first place. Jack was content, content to leave his brand new skates in their box, sitting on the mantle above the fireplace, and wait until we got home. Wait until we could go skating on the icy streets at home, not some slippery circle in the middle of the forest. But I begged, and I pleaded, and eventually Mom let Jack and I go out alone, to venture to the icy lake ourselves.
I remember her calling to us, saying to be careful.
I remember Jack laughing, calling back, "We will."
I remember skating over thin ice, not bothering to skate back to safety, even though I could hear the trembles of the ice splitting apart.
I wasn't careful.
And Jack is dead because of it.
Emma took a shaky breath, the journal trembling in her fingers. Slivers of ice trembled on her cheeks, and she hurriedly brushed the tears away. She stared out the window, watching icy sheets of frost pelt citizens as they tried to hurry inside, scarves blowing away from their reddened faces. Life went on so normal outside, but no one understood the pain Emma battled inside.
No one, except her parents. Emma shut the journal, and placed it on her small desk. Everything was arranged neatly, from the clothes in her closet to the pressed bed sheets. Organization was the one salvation from the hellish mess that was Emma's life. Maybe, if she put everything in the right place enough times, things would click, and go back to normal. Mom would stop crying in the middle of the night. Dad wouldn't leave as often, shutting the door behind him, and not opening it again until weeks later. And Jack…Jack would be back. She just had to keep organizing, and Jack would pop right into the place he was supposed to be. Eating her food and helping her with her homework, reading her bedtime stories and playing pranks. Emma just had to keep hoping. Not everything was organized yet. Otherwise, he'd be back. At least, that's what she believed.
Judging by the slow rise of the sun, Emma had about half an hour before she had to be at school. Emma took another deep breath, and walked over to her closet. She browsed through her clothes, looking for something to wear. Suddenly she felt an icy chill sweep down her spine, and she shivered. Emma glanced at the window, expecting it to be open. It was shut tight.
Emma glanced towards her bed, and gasped. Lying on her pillow was her brown dress.
Jack loved that dress; he said it looked the best on her.
It was also the dress she wore when she went skating.
It was the dress she wore when her brother died.
Emma blinked back more tears. She had to stop this; crying wouldn't change anything. "Stop it Emma," she commanded herself, taking the dress and shoving it back into the depths of the closet. "Move on."
Emma treaded lightly down the stairs, her feet becoming ghosts upon the carpeted surfaces. She slipped into the kitchen quietly, bracing herself for the scene she knew she would see. Her mother, hunched over a half cup of coffee, her eyes blank and staring. As Emma moved about and made her breakfast, her mother made no sound. She was lost in a land of remorse.
Emma placed her dishes in the kitchen, staring out the window. Frost had collected on the window panes, and was creeping along the glass surface. Seeing nothing by it, she returned her gaze to the dishes in her hands. But something made her flick her warm brown eyes back up to the window. There she saw, a frost pattern. The frost was in the shape of ice skates.
Jack's ice skates.
Emma jumped, smacking her hand against the counter. "Youch!" Emma winced, holding her injured hand.
Her mother looked up. "Everything…alright Emma?" Her eyes were fractured, shattered glass that let in bits and pieces of light, but were never quite whole. They never let all the sunshine pierce the room.
Emma nodded, averting her gaze to her reddened hand. "Fine," she assured her mother.
The lone, hunched figure at the table dropped her eyes back down to her coffee, once again submerged in another world all her own.
Clenching her teeth in pain, Emma slipped on her gloves and hat. With a hurried goodbye, she raced out the door, kicking up piles of snow with her feet.
Emma glanced back at the house. The dress and skates stuck in her mind like glue, but there was nothing to them. The skates were a coincidence, formed by accident by the cold tendrils of ice. She must've placed her dress out without remembering. Maybe Mom did. None of this set right in Emma's heart, but she scolded herself for thinking otherwise. There was nothing important about those objects. Simple as that. Emma squared her shoulders, and set off for school.
A teenage boy in a blue hoodie sat on a snowy rooftop, staring down at the frosty ground. His hair was snow white, to the point which you couldn't tell if it was his actual hair or snow. He glanced down at the girl, his crystal blue eyes filled with tears.
"Emma," Jack whispered softly, hoping it would carry along the wind, and slither into his sister's ear. "Please. See me. I'm right here."