Damn it, it's too fucking cold… Stanley thought as he stumbled his way through the streets.
The wind howled around him, whipping the falling snow into his face. He could barely see in front of him, and each step was more difficult to take.
I have to find shelter. Stanley could only shake as he pulled his thin windbreaker close to him, hoping that it would provide some measure of warmth. It didn't, so Stanley sighed and trudged on. Occasionally, someone brushed against him, not bothering to pause or apologize while he stumbled. He had lost all feeling in his feet long ago, the holes in his shoes rendering them nearly useless.
Before long, Stanley found an alley, relatively sheltered from the biting wind. Rapidly losing the strength to stand, Stanley collapsed, landing heavily on his butt in the snow. Instead of trying to get back up, he simply huddled against the brick wall of the alley, flipping up the collar of his thin jacket and burying his hands in his armpits, desperate for any warmth.
"Guess this'll have to do." he whispered into the cold air, his words forming steam in the icy air.
I sure wish I still had the Stanmobile… at least I'd be out of the snow…
Stan took his hands out of his armpits, fumbling through his pockets for matches and a box of cigarettes.
Damn, only 3 matches left. And 5 cigarettes. Hands fumbling, Stan strikes a match, watching the tiny flame flare into life. Instead of lighting a cigarette, he stares into the flame, taking comfort in the warmth that it provides.
How pitiful am I? Finding comfort and warmth from a damn match. Heh.
Stan blinked as the match sputtered out, unable to stay lit anymore.
Damn it, that was a waste. Didn't even light my cig.
He fumbled with numb fingers to light another match, this time bringing it to the end of his cigarette before allowing it to burn out. Hunching over more as the wind found its way into the narrow alley, he shields the lit end of his cigarette from the gale, allowing the small amount of warmth to thaw his fingers. Despite the cold surrounding him, Stanley found himself remembering better days, days laughing and warm with his brother, Stanford. He could almost feel his Ma's embrace, and his brother's hand ruffling his hair. Snow dropping onto his head broke the illusion, extinguishing his cigarette and causing him to shiver harder. With shaking hands, he quickly relit his cigarette and allowed his fantasy to carry him away.
"C'mon, Stanley! Ma's made cocoa!"
Stan and Ford ran into the kitchen, hair ruffled and eyes bright as their Ma finished pouring a cup of steaming cocoa and put two still-warm cookies on the table. Her bright lipstick smudged onto their foreheads as she gave them a quick kiss. The two young boys started in on the homemade cookies, feeling the warmth of it melting over their tongue. It wasn't long until the cocoa was drunk and the cookies finished. Stan felt sleepy, and he couldn't hold his eyes open.
"It's time to go, baby."
"Ma? Go where?"
"I think you know, baby. I'm sorry."
"It's OK, Ma."
Stanley felt himself being wrapped in a warm hug, and closed his eyes to bury his face in his Mom's dress. Inhaling her cheap perfume, he felt his eyes slowly droop closed, and his body relax.
"I love you, baby. Always have. Sleep now, I promise that you'll never be cold again."
A burned-out cigarette fell from frozen lips, landing in the snow below. Stan's still form sat slumped as snow piled higher around him, but he couldn't feel it. Frozen tear tracks sat on a face just as cold, and breath no longer escaped him.
Indeed, he would never feel the cold again.