-it's december and i wanted to write something christmas-related, so here it is.
songs; skyway - the replacements & my december - linkin park. enjoy :)
(disclaimed.)
one; trapped under ice.
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Winter came down to our home one night
Quietly pirouetting in on silvery-toed slippers of snow,
And we, we were children once again.
~Bill Morgan, Jr.
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She remembers lying on her back in the snow late in the afternoon, eyes trained on the unmoving clouds scattered across the winter-white sky.
She remembers the exact shades of the fallen leaves that flecked the shimmering layer of whiteness covering the ground, their brilliant golden hues shifting as the rays of the pale sun riveted between the shadows of the trees, the smell of unspoken words hanging in the air. She remembers being fascinated by the light reflecting off the ice that glistened on the leafless branches, the feel of the soft snow under her fingertips cold and familiar. She remembers feeling completely at peace, and wanting this perfect winter-wonderlandesque moment to never end, for that heartbeat to stretch into infinity.
And then… something else shifted into her view, blocking her from her winter paradise. A coat, with a dark head attached to it.
She was vaguely aware of that someone bending down, and she caught a glimpse of a pair of bright blue-gray eyes- like the sapphires in the old jewelry box upstairs in the attic, the ones her grandma used to wear around her neck at dinner parties and such. In contrast with their dead, frozen surroundings, they seemed closer to… She fumbled, trying to put her thoughts into words, but came up blank. That's all she could manage; they seemed closer to being blank than anything in her world right now.
She wanted to be angry at the person for standing in the way of her and the silent magical beauty that engulfed them, but anger – an emotion – was to tiring to conjure right now. She just wanted to sleep. She couldn't think, couldn't feel, anymore. She inhaled, slowly, her chest aching uncomfortably at the exaggerated movement. He smelt like snow, vanilla and a faint trace of aftershave. Like Christmas day when she used to spend it with her dad at Rockefeller centre, when they went to visit Grandma in New York City. She felt her eyelids droop, suddenly very sleepy. An urgent murmur tickled her ear, the boy's warm breath contrasting with the icy coldness of the air, forming small puffs of mist that slowly dissipated into the air.
There was a light pressure on her hand, and she opened her eyes again. The boy's lips were tipped down in a frown, and something about his expression seemed familiar to her. She finally put a finger on the emotion - anxiousness. Why was he anxious?
His lips parted, forming words that she could just barely make out.
Don't go to sleep.
She doesn't remember much of what happened after that. The boy must have called someone, because she remembers strangers crowding around her. Some of them mouthing into walkie-talkies, some of them carrying a stretcher. She remembers bits and pieces – the piercing sensation of pain shooting through her body, her grip around the boy's arm tightening, almost vice-like. Twigs snapping, footsteps in the snow, the distant sound of ambulances, their shrill cry perturbing the quietness of the forest. A man in a blue coat, multiple badges pinned on his sleeve, one voice among many, assessing the damage, telling her she was going to be okay.
One familiar pair of tired brown eyes stood out from the crowd. Dad. She wanted to reach out to him, ask him a thousand questions, but her mouth wouldn't work. The last things she remembered were a nurse coming to inject her with some transparent liquid, a glimpse of the boy's sapphire grey eyes again, and then; nothing.
Just a blackness that seemed to go on forever.
;
-nikki.
The rattling of the windows and the melodic chirping of a starling on the branches outside stirred me out of my confused dream. A cold gust of wind blew into the room, and I shiver, trying to untangle the mess my sheets are in. I curl up against the pillow and squeeze my eyes shut. The rhythmic drip-drip-drip of the rain hitting the windowsill distracts me from falling asleep again, and too soon, my alarm starts to sound, screaming electronic obscenities in my ear.
I pull the sheets up to my neck, muttering something about winter birds and ice, when I notice the drops of water sliding down the wall until they soaked the corner of the rug next to the bookcase. I blink. Quick as a flash, I'm out of bed and stumbling across the room to the window. My still-asleep fingers fumble with the latch on the window, and I briefly remember forgetting to shut them the night before.
Since there's no point in going back to sleep, I flick on the heating, sighing, then raid my wardrobe for something warm. I pull on a grey sweater and brush my hair back into a ponytail, then head downstairs. Dad is sitting in his armchair next to the fireplace, a newspaper laid out in front of him. The radio murmuring in the background gives the room the quaint feel it deserves. "Good morning, honey."
"Shh. Don't talk to me. I'm not awake yet."
He chuckles, but I don't find the energy to glare at him. Instead, I locate my slippers on the front porch, then wander into the kitchen. A plate of waffles is set out on the table, but I ignore it and head to the small coffee machine instead, flipping the switch on and letting its do its magic. While I'm waiting, I hunt down my favourite red ceramic mug, humming the soft tune of Owl City's Rainbow Veins, until the small black device emits a familiar ding!, not dissimilar to the toaster's. I pour the thick black liquid into my mug, adding some milk and sugar, then dp the same for Dad.
I cross the worn rug to the living room and hand him his mug, sinking down into the couch in front of the unlit fire while Dad folds up his newspaper and set it on the table. He takes a sip from his mug, his brown eyes level, analyzing me.
"Are you feeling better today?"
I take another sip of the coffee resting in my hands, letting the hot liquid warm up my throat. "Mm."
His lips quirk up in approval, and his expression lightens, relief flagrant in his eyes. "Put on something sensible and warm, all right? It's getting colder outside."
As if on cue, the crackly voice on the radio says something about temperatures dropping to twelve degrees Celsius this morning. I mumble something incoherent about alarm clocks, and Dad nods like he understands me. "Do you want me to drive you to school?"
I shake my head. "No, s'okay. I can walk."
He frowns slightly, then makes a submissive noise and picks up his newspaper again. He quickly leafs through it until he finds the right page, and I turn to examine the painting that hung above the fireplace.
"Do you mind if I sit in the library for a while?"
The library is the warmest place in the house, and it had the added bonus of a wonderful smell of old books in it.
He doesn't glance up from the article he's reading. I know what he's going to say before his mouth forms the words.
"Just don't get any stains on the leather."
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