I can't fix you Chapter 1 : WALL OF DENIAL, a frozen fanfic

I CAN'T FIX YOU -

By frosven.

INDEX

CHAPTER ONE: WALL OF DENIAL.

-WALL OF DENIAL –

— "Poor parents." Her mother wearily expressed, compressing her faint eyelids ensemble.

Earlier, Elsa had noticed a bizarre behavior about the female sitting ahead.

In disdain, the older woman dug into a viscous pea soup. In which she repeated the motion of elevating the content, and letting it plop back in. Each spoonful achieved to make both her father and herself conflicted; such worrisome stuck-ups. The massive content slurped against the edges, and dived confidently into an inconsistent beige puddle. The repeated action, finally initiated a trio: all the soups slicking harmoniously. Everyone participated to the improvised opera, whilst, the daughter ought to mutter a question.

—"Did I do something w—"Threw the younger.

—"The neighbors?"

The broad form, splotching empathically his dinner, cut the query. Although she did not protest or argument on the subject.

Countering a figure of authority was considered utter disrespect. Her family, a conservative babble, restricted boldness representations. Any disagreement ensued a frightened emotion. Her family, as well, came off as uselessly expressive.

Respect equaled identity, an heritage offered by their Norwegian ancestors.

—"The neighbors." A thin voice affirmed.

Contrarily to the single male of the house, she did not nod her comprehension. There was at least twenty neighbors on the right, and the same amount on the left. Multiplied by the front row, that ended up being 82 potential 'poor parents'. She had never really bothered to converse with the lonely, obese granny. She smoked, starving if the filter wasn't attached to her lips. A grotesque contradiction that enervated her.

She ignored every timid approach, and increased the volume power for eventual defense, in case the odd elder complained.

—"Uh? What happened?"

Questioned Elsa, her glance lowering to her mother's flat chest. A malaise immediately aspired the comfortable ambiance. The convivial, sharing nature of her parents seemed to have dissipated. Dinner, to the earliest she could remember, always appeared to be an excuse for obligatory family time. She still hadn't developed any interest into listening to a redundant day of work, her mother's acquaintances. Her father was worse, he cherished his hunting trips, and could ramble the same anecdotes thrice within an hour. Firing on innocent reindeers, stuffing their heads presently dangling over the bed she had been conceived in.

What a romantic, beardy hunter!

—"Anna's… "The older woman howled in a shriek. Her transduced irises watering. Her chin trembled periodically, and she knew her mother too well to dismiss that this announced melancholic news.

—"Anna was diagnosed with terminal cancer." Father said.

The sentence flew in her direction like a nuclear bomb. Anna, she recognized, had been one of the few child that made this street alive and bearable. She'd ignored the gingery dork for years. The teenagers hadn't ever spoken to each other. They had different social circles, different classes and options. Anna was quiet and belligerent, rumors weren't worth the little damage they caused. Also, her life was boring.

Well, not anymore, she sniggered internally.

—"Sorry to hea—"Goddamn it.

"You shall visit her tomorrow."

A word triggered her pale, innocent lips. White rather than pink. Fragile and vaporous like smoke. She pouted the idea, due to the friendly reminder of her granny neighbor. 'But' she mouthed. Her mother glaring, looking at her beloved as she leaned for a single-arm embrace.

—"Okay? When can I get there?" Elsa asked.

Her mother had retrieved her natural tint of skin, and downed the cool soup, with disgusting rattling noises. It seemed that the most overwhelming moment of the dinner had been finalized and brushed off. Her mother's intents had been lies. She only wanted to perturb Elsa, and guilt-trip her into visiting an almost dead corpse. Surely, the visit would be a waste of her precious free-time.

Hoping it would just happen once, she welcomed the evil need to be socially performing, and good hearted neighbors.

—"Between fourteen and seventeen." Her mother lazily presented.

—"Do some research on how to deal with terminal illnesses, would you?"

On that recommendation, she straightened up her chair, to settle her empty dishes into the sink. Synchronically, her father executed himself, expecting the angered flower petal to wash the kitchen. They had previously adopted a rule, that whenever she ate accordingly to a menu they had prepared, she would need to clean the plates and messy counter.

—"I will." Elsa answered. 'I guess so's' and 'maybe's' weren't proper replies.

Her curiosity gurgled, as if trapped vomit.

But it didn't get the best of her.

Sitting, frowning; she wondered so many facts. Her childish side had always been an eager need to comprehend situations, and grasp the bottom of it. Dishwashing was an activity that prospered those denied thoughts. Confronting the sink, she squeezed the large soap bottle clumsily, adding large amount of the sticky yellow liquid into the turbid water.

First of all: How long would Anna bother to continue her damned life? If she had gotten a similar diagnosis, her existence would have vanished shortly after. What was the point of suffering, breathing some people's essential oxygen, for no purposes or ambitions? It was rather selfish, but humanity tended to trade its depressive state to an annoying seek of the 'Silver Lining.'

She guessed loony unique child presented the signs of living under a rock. Her idiocracy could only widen.

She felt a tinge of comprehension about the latter. But surprisingly, she resented arrogance about cancer.

Second: What type of cancer did she develop? Why weren't the treatments successful?

Even thinking about those unresolved issues made her spine cringe in terror. Rude, brute. Cancer was about the loss of a future, mournful attitude, and shutting off their acquaintances. Obviously, she couldn't be allowed to receive visitors, if the infection system was touched.

Third: What even would she accomplish by standing awkwardly in a room she didn't know, with a girl she barely understood?

She dropped a spoon into the sink, and fished it up to place on the fresh cloth. She regarded her reflection in the golden mirror. 'It's like I'm upside-down.' She muttered to herself and the inanimate object. 'Or maybe I'm the only one on the right side.'

Promptly, she terminated the task, and climbed the stairs by pairs. The coldness of the living room quit her, the upper parts of the house felt warmer, in a logical way. She recognized the voices of Leonardo Dicaprio, and whoever interpreted Rose in the Titanic. Admitting herself shyly into the room, her parents paused the iconic movie, and glanced protectively and curiously, with their eyebrows quirked. The daughter kneeled on the mattress, twisting her palms anxiously. 'Or maybe I'm the only one of the right side,' she encouraged herself, accompanied of a deep breath.

—"What's Anna's cancer?" She stormed the phrase in a syllable, and expected her authority figures to understand.

—"It's blood cancer. We don't know which type." They completed each other.

—"Oh." She gaped her lips.

—"Don't stress too much about it. Anna is great." Her mother resumed, as if she'd ever truly meant any exchange she engaged with the honky donkey.

The brightness of her swollen mouth pursed together in resignation.

—"I just… I don't want to make a fool of myself…" She confessed half-heartedly.

—"But we're just glad you accepted to do this. You'll get to know her." Her mother continued, meanwhile her father pressed play. In seconds the older woman's hand snatched the controller away, pressing on stop rather than pause. Both groaned, and shook their heads. A feminine hand rose up to her husband's thigh, Elsa suppressing snickering laughs.

Romantic, bearded hunter.

—"Did I really have a choice?" sighed she.

—"You're generous, Elsa. You wouldn't allow yourself to miss cheering Anna up."

Yet she denied every pathetic granny request.

She smiled contemptuously, and exited the room after waving good night. The movie started from the commencing: she reached her bedroom.

Her bedroom was a shelter, in which she hid and compiled secrets. Her safe place, her personal-confidential space. Similarly to the majority of the rooms, the walls were left blank, the furniture of a grainy white granite. Opposed to the entrance, the bed base reached near the wall, and left a difficult path to her wardrobe. This wardrobe was filled with unused bags, bought for mental consciousness of the environment. The problem, in most occasions, laid in forgetting to actually bring some alongside. Around thirty of them created a giant deformity.

Facing that very door, a bureau stood, hatching an oval shaped mirror. It: hidden under many layers of personal products, empty bottles that she kept as a collection. The main surface was tiny, a computer barely slept on the corner. The tablets on each upper sides of the desk, contained photographs and medals. A shrine to her most glorious instants. A basic reproduction of Van Gogh's 'Starry Night' hung loosely, on the only authorized spot to place nails and other destructive constructions. The only present window in the room was stuck under Elsa's canopy bed, surrounded by light voluptuous veiling. The accent color she maintained was of an opalescent pink.

Soft and pristine, it gave her the impression of breathing purer air. The final touches sat on the bed sadly; teddy bears. Others were masked behind a portrait or stuffed deeply into her wardrobe's carnivorous mouth. —She lost more belongings into that storing space, instead of saving them for a near future.—

Under her bed, a scrunched valise was filled with swimsuits and summer clothes. Maybe a few packages of consumed food decomposing hither and thither. Previously, her piano could occupy the room, but after a few changes, they decided to move it into a dusky piece. The basement.

After she stripped to flannel pajamas, she opened the computer's screen, and sat for about an hour, scrolling through sites and informing her tired mind on how to be proper with cancer patients. Especially the ones meant to die in a quick period. The daughter didn't dare ask anyone for how long Anna would possibly live.

She wondered if insensitivity was a genetic trait: a malformation of DNA.

Or the consequences of existing in such restrictive household.

At ten, she stirred progressively to reality, mostly by the alarm she'd forgot to unable. The rim of her auroral eyes were bloody and irritated. Lips covered in discreet scabs. Skin showed signs of allergy symptoms. She rolled to reach the mattress' edge, and sat for a minute, stretching and yawning. Nobody was watching, so she exaggerated the gestures, her jaw inappropriately slack, and her arms skinnier than usual. She felt sweat salting her body. Deceived, the daughter undressed and ran to the bathroom naked. Fresh clothes wrapped around some more explicit parts of her anatomy.

She tested the bathroom's lock system, aftermath turning on the shower. Returning to the mirror, as pale a ghost, she paraded ashamedly. Loathing how irregularly her breasts perked up. Too drastically. Her slim posture apparently made her look frigid, malnourished, even. Her ribs popped visibly, her hip bones way too large.

Oh, her Alien feet.

The toes formed a pyramid, the middle one was the longest, and her thumb toe the shortest, conforming to the little toe's size.

Anyhow, she didn't linger much, choosing to test the water's temperature. Parting the shower curtains, her hand bent up to verify that the liquid had heated properly. Careful, Elsa stepped inside the cabin, and proceeded to clean herself. For the sake of cancer people, she shaved her legs, and applied her soap routine twice.

A towel beribboned from her armpits to knee length, she applied sanitary and beauty products in a certain order. Casually putting lipstick to masquerade the pallor of her unusual lips. Mascara elongated her silky cilia. Some spots on her tibias turned bright red—a sign of inability to shave without accidentally hurting herself.

When she observed the toilet bowl, the clothes she had prepared had vanished. Instead, a religious, stupid dress with thighs invaded her choice. She had planned a pair of black skinny jeans, and a large sweater with retro, comic colorings. Booh.

Grunting, her legs adjusted themselves into the tubes. The dress… well. It was a pain to describe. Vintage, almost, but used and tern. She supposed it was a piece of fashion that mummy wouldn't throw away. It was pea-soup beige, and circled by a turquoise bow. An off shoulder, full skirt, abominable cut.

Not using the hair dryer, she set up her lazy locks into a high ponytail. Now she had about five hours to spare. Elsa required to be busy at all times, it soothed her, pulverizing the impression of insecure presumptions. Many choices were offered to her, like cleaning, reading, continuing researches. Since the morning was hollow, and the sky empty of clouds, she grabbed the single book with a mark between the rusty pages. It probably wasn't a problem to most fans of Dickens, but the blonde was stuck at page 479, thus inventing the term 'Reader's block.' When a person grew desperate as to complete the story, but the mind was uninterested or elsewhere. When you could not concentrate, nor understand the meaning and hidden layers of those literary arts. Dickens had written 'Great Expectations' a high rated dramaturge. In which, a boy named Pip became an orphan, and his sister took him in charge, reluctantly. She was aggressive and expected more than the innocent could offer. He got insane about love, and its eternal hurting compared to the ephemeral pleasure.

After half an hour wasted on transfixing the roof of her canopy bed, she realized that 'Reader's block,' weren't departing so loosely. Replacing the book, she contemplated tidying the suburban house. However, when she descended the stairs excitedly, her mother was washing the counters with toothbrushes and ammoniac. If she procured help, she wouldn't finish before midnight.

In three hours, her mother would curl up on the tilled floor, and wash the floor with a back-brush. Larger, yet the same ratio as toothbrushes used against counters. Before the older could remark her appearance, she sprinted directly to her room, the stairs churning noisily under the weight. Four hours would now be dedicated for further information about terminal cope, children cancer, the loss of a children, blood cancers and what it overall means. She found herself deeply absorbed by the material shared on websites. Her favorite posts were diaries, interviews and tumors relieved NED's. Evidently, she didn't relate, but it made her understanding personal and on point. Everyone's view was different, and she would adapt to Anna's approach. It might as well be as surprising as guilt and self-loathing, or predictable. Abnormally serene and positive. Most of the researches were the techniques to treat such a disease. Blood cancer, in statistics, was extremely treatable, if depicted in the early stages. Not as much children died from it.

Why Anna, though?

The question was no pity. Otherwise infuriating. A branch of anger that was less tangible than usual terms.

The daughter became upset over psychology, death and philosophy. Everything could be considered philosophy, even a medal hanging on a tablet could be explored on multiple universes and basic human traits. Extrapolating, the reasons to identify herself to a piece of medal, attached to a blue-red-white necklace could be defined. Concerning Anna: all three concerns juggled, her hands fumbling for fluent rolling, trying to maintain a balance, an equilibrium. Whenever a ball touched the ground, her ego perished imperceptibly.

She promised herself to help Anna in her development and hopeless distance between her abridged finish line and the present. Focusing onto the matter seemed fairly convenient, for the ginger to appreciate the countdown, without worrying about how rapidly the numbers diminished, about how nothing would mark a pause or a stop. Anna had to concentrate on things she could fix by herself.

Two hours had passed down like dominoes, and her eyes squinted at the screen settings. The next step was quite a peculiar one.

She read the possible symptoms, and tried to imagine how complex a patient felt. Indeed the fatigue, pukes and loss of energy swirled downwards the sentiment of well-being. Their consciences began to spin uncontrollably. A few days after they got home with Xanax.

Scared of the medication, nonetheless using it. She patted some potential parts on her body, susceptible of getting swollen. Her neck appeared alright, so did her armpits- she did not own a groin. Everywhere, they stated a difficulty from breathing, fever, waking up in sweat, at first Elsa recognized those as inoffensive flu.

She learned that cancers had commonly four stages. The first the better, the fourth, the terminal, death. The two others were distributed equally. Through different pages, she acknowledged that some patients were discovered too late, and were destined to perish. Sometimes, after a remission, a tumor appeared afterwards, which caused anguish. More than the perpetual worry that the cancer would sprint back. Sometimes, the return was more aggressive than the first diagnosis, and specialists recommended to use the same techniques which had successfully removed the presence of cancer.

However replacing the heavy drugs by other cell destroying chemotherapy, combined with radiation.

Three hours down, she posed the laptop on the desk, and perfumed herself with cherry fragrances. Her hair was too fuzzy to let it naturally hang. Expertly, she braided the almost white strands together, and attached them into a lovely updo. Her angular visage seemed harsher, but her soft manners and obedient behavior would chase away the first impressions.

Heart fluttering uncontrollably, she marched down the stairs. Colored stains melted into her vision, her fingers quivered like decrepit leaves travelling by the air masses. Her mother coughed to attire her attention, and she therefore returned it to her.

—"Why are you wearing my dress?" She said quizzically.

—"Didn't you put it for me in the bathroom? I couldn't find my clothes." Elsa explained, weighting her words.

—"I thought they were soiled, so I threw them in the laundry."

Mystery solved, she wasn't meant to wear the cult-like attire. The clock narrowed the space between fourteen and thirteen thirty. She didn't have much minutes to fumble in her animated closet.

—"Can I wear it today? 'Else I'll be late."

Her mother nodded slowly, and she wrapped a long scarf around her neck, enrolled to the back of her head. The beanie covering her cranium had wide ear-flaps to protect her from the bitter weather.

She announced her departure, and directed herself towards a modest house, about a hundred meters away in diagonal vector.

It was winter, In Québec, a cold, majorly French country. The snow was rough and candied by solid ice. Rubbers soles, installed for safety, crushed the masses, reducing them to horrified laments under her feet. Some platforms were so polished by the sidewalk servicing, compacted and frozen, that walking casually on those caused falls. The view of the house was reduced to their mere roofs, and entry. Sometimes a tent was installed to protect the vehicles from receiving damages due to rain. Brown slush melted under the radiant sun, which projected its ray on the surface of earth, and was reflected towards the walker. Even if the sun was brighter, the cold was unbearable. Standing motionless for five minutes ravaged and irritated the skin. Thighs became callous, numb to the extremities. Cheeks were tinted of a crimson shade, meanwhile the temperature and dry air made eyes swollen with tears, frosting eyelids. It was a Siberian coldness. In the violence which it hit Elsa. Getting up in the morning, commonly joined the thought: 'Goddamn it. I'm not waking up to get my ass frostbitten.'

During this season, the whole population stepped an hour back on the clock to adjust to the earliness of the sun exposure. It was still dark at seven in the morning, and relatively somber at four PM. The phenomenon caused a seasonal depression, from the lack of light, the stressing shopping to command gifts and organizing a traditional supper on Christmas' Eve. Work could be a source as well, concerning charges and important business and marketing methods. School appeared condensed to the students dreaming already about holiday periods. Teachers imposing mandatory exams on the last week, pushing down the learning throats the information that wouldn't enter by swallowing.

But winter was a generally joyous time. Residents drove to nearest ski centers, and descended the paths agilely. Less sportive persons used Ski-doo's, played ice hockey on a lake. Some fishers dug circular holes in the ice, and attached a system of lines to catch the beasts. Square cabins were set over the holes for safety reasons. It was also amusing to attend sliding paths and fly into a donut shaped tube. Usually, snow was dry and soft, which were perfect conditions. If it had rained earlier, the substance became mushy and heavy to carry, it would soil even the thicker mittens, even the thicker beanies and scarfs. Which meant hanging the clothes over a bonfire, smelling the effervescent smell of black smoke and green, matured pine threes. During this step, children enjoyed a 'Caillou' movie, sipping ravenously a steaming cup of rich hot chocolate, stuffed with marshmallows, and chocolate scratches. It was also interesting to consider a children's first snow day, even animals reacted. Some thought snow was flour, like sand. Animals didn't mind too much, they wanted to throw themselves in it, and run miles in non-balanced structures.

In Québec, winter wouldn't be winter without snow, trucks and tempests.

Few minutes under the punctuality, Elsa arrived, shaking her heeled boots on the stairs leading to a wooden door. She noticed a paper that advertised not to ring the bell, but to knock. Retiring her mittens, she hit several time the texture, her fist rock-like. Her knuckles dangerously pale, until the joints, bright red and disgustingly frightened. She swore after two minutes, stupidly icing her uncooperative heating system. She elevated her fist once again, in the hope of knocking louder, but the door was blatantly fissured. A confused figure observed from the inside, and almost shut the door. The daughter reacted impulsively, and lanced her foot forward, painfully squishing between the frame and door. Anna tried to force to close the door, but the foot still blocked.

—"Anna. It's Elsa." Sharply induced the blonde, sealing her eyelids. Her leg struggled with other attempts at assessing the door its previous position. The insolent sighed and retreated, inviting ice-cube-Elsa to enter. Anna appeared defensive and haggard, her arms embracing her tiny waist, and the tip of her fingers fidgeting at a non-human pace. About to unzip her coat and pulling out her beanie, Anna screeched.

—"Don't waste your time. I just want to know why you came here." Donkey sputtered proudly, frowning miserably. Her form was vaguely distinguishable, yet it was hovered by dancing shadows. Elsa acted as commanded, and stopped removing any clothing article.

—"Honestly? My mother kind'a forced me to visit you today. I hardly disobey." The honest revealed, snickering on the tip of her crooked lips, covered in pink lipstick, a child running around resembling a ridiculous clown.

Pause.

—"I suppose you can stay, you have to go at—"

—"Seventeen, I know."

Anna rolled her eyes, not sure if the situation was humorous or tense. But she often preferred to select feelings that didn't bash her self-confidence: a sword slashing her intestines.

Elsa, in a tenacious murmur, guffawed timorously.

Both girls leaned against a leather couch, sitting on the carpet. The television blasted an old episode of Zoboomafoo, criticizing some characters, or monkeying some aspects of them. It caused strangled chortles and exuberant respirations. Anna kept grasping her stomach, her abdomen tensing continuously at each quip she pronounced. The Kratt Brother imitated skunks, and their signal before vaporizing a nasty odor. One did hand stand, while the other tapped his palm on the soil angrily.

—"Skunky!" The daughter uttered deliciously, her voice low and crackling. Palm intuitively reaching to cover her gaped mouth. The intonation, sarcastic yet seductive consisted of the main attraction. Anna's giggles intensified.

—"You are so disgusting!" howled the gingery.

—"Me? Absolutely not. Though I do know who's got some dirty kinks."

—"Who? Do I know him or her?" Eagerly questioned her interlocutor.

—"The granny next door. I'm sure she fucks garbage."

At this point, both sniveled happily. Since her companion's heavy breathing wouldn't quit, Elsa paused.

Recovering from laughter intricately meant to stop the bleeding's origins. Reputed for its contagious instances, laughter's suppression process came off as arduous. A single glance could provoke conspiratorial relapses. Entirely deleting remarks and looking down would alleviate the striking pain rummaging and crunching Anna's fragile lung system. Elsa surveyed the cancerous victim attentively. Turning her limbs towards her, and bringing her knees up.

Rapidly, her swollen stomach rose like profound grasps. Slumbering down whenever expirations were expulsed. Her cheeks- glowing red, were a contrast to her unhealthy appearance.

Precious seconds passed away, her breathing returning to a reasonable pace. Her whole body seemed to have gladly relaxed, her shoulders nonchalantly spilled on the couch, her legs parted wide. Brushing the sofa's cushion, her skull was attached to a tipped neck. Twisting her head towards the daughter, Anna demonstrated a grateful, wicked grin. The gesture soothed her worries. Researches proved that laughter therapy treated or supported a treatment for illnesses and mental disorders. Elated by the waves of lung compression, serotonin released itself throughout transmitters. Often described the 'happiness drug' and 'well-being hormone,' the sentiment was parented to the end of a work-out, the exhausted heart slowed, an euphoria. In therapy, the group formed a chain of laughter. You had to try to laugh naturally at first, and then some exercises were useful to accentuate the clear tint of sincere giggles.

Elsa was overjoyed with the benefits, consequences of improvised humor.

Settled down, the hunky donkey stared gloomily at the black screen of the television. Her eyes glassy and hollow, in the manner she absentmindedly regarded an inanimate solid color.

—"Feeling okay?" The hesitant visitor hummed, her tone innocent.

Anna signified that no, she wasn't feeling okay.

A silence invaded the girls, none able to muster the courage to lie—not able to construct appropriate encouragements. Elsa distorted her fingers on her lap. Perhaps she waited anxiously for a rectification, perhaps not even words described her confusion to Anna's apathetic curled form. Her shoulders slouched uncomfortably, her mouth smiling upside down, her lips deadly blue and violet. It terrified her, to observe the state the diagnosis had instituted. The cancer infested her spirit, as if a rainy cloud watered it, and the tissues absorbed the malevolent tears, addicted by the fuel to formulate dark thoughts.

Slitting the atmosphere, the ill blipped uncontrollably, a heart-breaking sniff of despair loudly retaining her sadness.

—"Seeing you today just made me realize how much I miss my life."

—"I mean, there's a party at a friend's house, and I can't go… 'Too much potential infections that could worsen the worse.'"

Laughing nervously, replacing hair strands that had fallen before her eyes. Her petite hands wiped the watery surplus that stained her porcelain features. Even then, her lips broke into a disturbing half-smile. Gathering a peace of mind in seconds, which impressed Elsa.

—"You'll die anyway. I say: go."

Her lips quivered until they reached a painful non-obedient etch. Insanely, she could discern a glimmer in her eyes. Unusual regain of her positive self. She guessed that announcing it without filter would lighten the burden. Reality was easier to cope.

—"I'll sneak you out."

—"You'll sneak me out?"

—"I will."

Anna clasped her palm over her mouth, trying to hide the smirk of rebels.

The hour to depart from the house arrived, and Elsa slid her feet into knee-high boots. Overall, the evening had been correct. Demystifying her neighbor's suffering had required a lot more attention and care that she had expected. Her stomach pulsed in agony, needing to be satiated. Anna stood, decrepit. Politely assisting her.

—"So, whenever you need the ride, call me." Hurried the blonde, exiting the house, starting to jog.

Anna fumbled to open the door, that'd been shut centimeters from her face.

—"Elsaaaaaaa!" She called, obstinately repeating.

—"Eeeeelsaaaa!"

She growled and grabbed the nearest coat. Slid it around her and brought the ends over each other instead of zipping. She jumped in a ready pair of Uggs, and pursued the girl with the white hair.

"Elsa, Elsa!" Yelled the chaser.

Her throat expanded, inflated interiorly, obstructing her breathing. However, Elsa had put on a pair of headphones, and didn't listen to her pleading for a stop. Her knees wobbled before her, her view blurred at the exterior edges of her vision. Nerdy glasses kept slamming against her nose, but she was a tempest, she was sprinting towards the visitor, slouching actively rather than running. A few meters before they would reach the entrance, Anna clung to bony shoulders.

Elsa jumped, and turned around in fury. Reproaching glares analyzing the situation, before she let out a sigh and desperately rubbed the cancerous' back.

—"What are you doing, outside?" The daughter demanded wearily.

Anna folded in two, researching her breath. Twenty pants later, she still wasn't able to pronounce a coherent sentence, Elsa felt the urge to warm her up and maybe ring her parents, if the situation got out of control. A hand supporting the frame of her patient, she stumbled beseechingly towards her precedent location. Anna's hands strangely turned dark, and rigid. She hurried to place gloves over them, multitasking the human crutch, and the replacement of mothers.

Finally, she pushed her way in to the couch, and laid the weakness with her chin tilted up. The door had remained open because of the pursuit, and water formed puddles on the carpet, wooden floors, too. Her neighbor didn't budge, motionlessly trying to emerge from the panicking situation.

—"Okay, Anna, should I call you parents?"

The inquisited replied negatively.

—"Have you got medicine for this? Are you dying?"

Anna signified no to both.

—"How can I make it better?"

The patient extended her arm to be taken. Elsa elevated her consciously, and constantly checked for a signal. The ill gasped, as soon as she bent forward and extended her arms in a parallel line to her legs. The daughter patted her back in circle motions, retiring her boots and unzipping her father's ski-doo suit.

Breathing noisily, rattling her throat, she finally managed to speak clearly.

—"Sneaking out is tonight," expressed Anna, translucent.

Elsa sniggered bluntly.

—"No fucking way you're getting out of this house tonight. You almost died on me."

—"But you said you would! You said I had to go for it—I'll die anyway." Anna quoted jerkily. Elsa didn't respond, infuriated by the cancerous' memory. She stood up, closely and leaned against the couch's armrest.

—"Please, Elsa. I'll go, with or without you."

Anna left her no possibility, so she nodded a single time, and turned her back to the scariest prank ever pulled on her. Ashamedly, she ruminated her decision and considered either poisoning her drink with sleeping pills, hitting her on the head, or suppressing the problem with a murder.

—"You should stay here. Well, if that's okay with you." Ginger ball of anxiety suggested, correcting herself.

—"Fuck you." The blonde merely sputtered.

—"Are you angry at me?" Anna said fearfully.

—"Take a wild fucking guess." Elsa hissed, racing to the kitchen to get water.