This is part of my personal take on Siberia, in a snapshot.
And also a letter in some ways, to someone who needs to read it.
Why?
Pain. Ice. Everywhere.
Why now?
Sharp, sharper than knives, sharper than scapel blades.
I ask and I get. WHY NOW!?
The kind of pain that hurts so bad, it crosses the border between emotional and physical, creating its own identity.
Was I not good enough?
Chest. Hurt.
I tried so hard to be good.
Frost...where did it stop, and the woman begin?
I cannot go on without you.
Perhaps they were the same thing.
I cannot. Not anymore.
Solitary, and everything.
I WILL BE ANSWERED!
Hair like night. Eyes like bullets.
Why does it have to be now...?
Skin, snow, bonded.
Just as you were everything,
Siberia.
You were gone.
Okay, it makes no sense. Buuuuuuuuuut I can write her story.
If I can be bothered. You see, I've got writers block. For The Dark, which I should be updating on but...I need help. :/
Anyway. This is Siberia.