Dawn was coming soon. The last few moments of the night were something precious. The silence enveloped everything, and the stillness was unreal.
The snow had swallowed up all of the traces of life it could. It was still falling, but not as hard as the previous night.
Within the snow was a small cottage. It was covered in snow, like everything else, but unlike the rest of the surrounding forest, it did show signs of inhabitants.
Oh the dwelling's entrance hung a small circle of pine branches woven with holly berries. Pinecones dotted the green masterpiece like sprinkles on a sundae.
Inside the house's main hall was a small handmade oak table. Two Christmas cards were displayed proudly: one had a snow-laden hill dotted with children on the front; the other, a small, dark-haired girl holding a present with a red bow on it, her blue eyes watching someone in the onlooker's general direction with a shy smile.
Also on the table was a set of silver-colored car keys, some incoming mail, the majority of it bills, and a large candle in a glass container, the sticker on it proclaiming that the candle was cinnamon scented.
She peered out the living room window, her nose pressed against the glass. Her legs tucked under her willowy frame, she had her arms rested on the couch's back. Blue eyes monitored the snowfall with a look of conflicting emotions: both anger and glee battled within her.
Red hair brushed her shoulders, caught the firelight greedily, and then relinquished it slowly. A few freckles dotted her arms and neck as well as her face. Pale skin was red around her nose, the sign of the seasonal cold that had already passed. She leaned back from the window, gently smoothing her emerald sweater with an almost wistful gesture. She had donned old jeans, ripped at the knees, earlier that morning, but around her neck was the greatest thing she owned.
A small golden snowflake hung on a fine gold chain around her porcelain neck. On the back, engraved in flowing cursive writing, was a message to the girl, 'May all your Christmases be Snowy'.
Her mother entered the room, smiling gently at the girl for a moment. Though beautiful, an older version of her daughter, the responsibilities of being a single mother had begun to show: a wrinkle here, a tired smile there… Now it was all she could do to stay awake for her daughter. But she somehow did, despite the hours she sometimes worked, and the bottle she sometimes took to.
Ginny wasn't a drunk. She never went out enough. Just sometimes she came home, so she'd have a drink. Then she'd remember waking up their little bed, the covers up to her chin, the girl sleeping on the couch.
She wasn't a bad drinker. She never hit her daughter (at least, not that she could remember), but sometimes the girl would have an occasional bruise that she would say came from the kids at school, though Ginny could have sworn it wasn't there when she got home.
The bruises were there only when Ginny drank.
Outside the snow began to fall harder. Ginny smiled sadly out the window.
She'd named her daughter because of the snowstorm that had been going on when she'd been born. One of the nurses had remarked that 'It sure wouldn't be Christmas if it wasn't snowing'. So Ginny had named her daughter Snowy.
Now, here, in the little room Ginny, dressed in her pink slippers and bathrobe, reflected on that Christmas Eve almost fifteen years before.
It was so cold. She'd had given birth at the coldest part of the night to a little red-faced girl-child, who weighed seven pounds, nine ounces. She was beautiful, Ginny remembered. Yes, she was beautiful.
She smiled warmly at the memory.
"Mommy?"
The sound of her daughter's voice jarred her from her wonderland.
"Yeah, Ladyluck?"
Snowy smiled at the mention of the old pet name. Ginny marveled at how little Snowy had changed since she had been twelve. Looking at her mother shyly, Snowy continued, "Are you ever going to marry again?"
Yes, Ginny had been married. To Snowy's father, in fact. When he'd found out, though, that his wife had not taken her morning-after pill, though, he'd disappeared. The Papers had come, along with a note that the only way he was coming back was if she 'terminated the pregnancy'.
She wanted him back so bad, but she didn't want to kill the baby. Maternal instinct had come forward from thousands of years of mother-daughter talks, and when Snowy was three, the divorce was final.
He never came to see Snowy, never sent her any presents on her birthday or for anything else, nothing. Ginny had only heard from him one time afterwards, when he'd sent her a short letter saying he'd never want to have anything to do with 'that bastard child'. Ginny was more than happy to comply with his wishes.
"Why do you ask?"
"All of my friends have their dad or step-dad in the picture, to do stuff with them. Plus, it looks like it's getting to be too hard for you to raise me alone." Snowy paused, took a slight breath, then continued before her mother could comment, "My Algebra teacher's really nice. You met him at conferences, Mr. Rodriguez?"
Ginny sighed loudly, guiltily avoiding Snowy's hopeful eyes. She'd been thinking around the same things as her daughter, and she had even gone out on a date with Carl, a guy in her office. He was nice, and they'd arranged to go out again sometime when they weren't so busy.
"Snowy, just because you want me to get married doesn't mean I should… I have to wait until I'm ready."
"Mom, it's been over 11 years! The least you could do is see someone. Not all guys are bad, and not all of them are gonna run when they hear that you've got a fifteen year old girl."
Ginny winced. She always thought that she'd be telling this to her crying daughter, not her teary-eyed daughter telling her.
"I'm not ready," she said, trying to keep her voice from a whining-pitch. She failed miserably.
"You can't hide forever, Mom."
"Can't hide forever, Mom."
"Forever, Mom."
"Mom."
"NO!"
Ginny sat upright in her bed, her face and neck drenched in sweat. Looking down at her bed, she saw the drying blood. Sighing, she got up and trudged to the bathroom.
She stared at herself in the mirror. Being sixteen, she was extremely confused. Why was she having these dreams about her daughter? The resemblance between herself and the girl was frightening, but she was certain that sometimes dreams take form of you in a different role.
Glancing down at herself, she cursed mentally. She was in such a bad state…
Her eyes shifted to the lone item on the counter. She picked it up gently, almost afraid to touch it. She ran it gently over her pale wrist and some blood came out of the cuts it had left. They hurt like a sonofagun, but she knew, if she cut deep enough and it the right spot, the pain would only last a second.
Only a second.
She could live with dying.