- Content Warning for Self Injury -

The Fragility of Frost
Chapter One ~

Sadness washed over him. He felt it come in waves as tears threatened to pour from his eyes. He slumped to the snowy ground, dropped his staff, and drew his knees up to his chest, burying his face in them and allowing a deep sob to wrack his body. Alone. He was always alone. Nobody cared about him. His shoulders shook as grief overtook him. He internally cursed himself. Stupid. Useless. No matter how hard he tried to stay out of the way, he was always a burden on everyone. His hands clenched down on his forearms, squeezing tightly the tender flesh through his sleeves, trying to drown out his sorrow with pain. His hands trembled as he released his arms and dug into his pocket for the relief that was stored there. He pulled out a razor blade, and simply stared at it fuzzily as tears continued to escape from his eyes.

Finally he drew up one if the sleeves of his hoodie, exposing the scarred skin below. His inner arm was covered with old, white scars, with newer red and purple cuts upon them. He brought the blade to rest against his scarred skin. Then, inhaling deeply, he pressed down while pulling the bade quickly across his arm. He gasped involuntarily as pain flooded his vision for a quick second, blissfully obscuring the sadness that welled inside of him. He focused his eyes on the small beads of blood that appeared along the length of the wound, growing larger until they melted into one line of blood. The cut had chipped a little bit of the sadness inside him away, and he raised the razor again, hoping to gain a little more control. He placed the blade against his skin, just beside the first wound, and then pulled it across his arm. He repeated the process again and again.

He cut open his flesh with the razor over and over, each time feeling a little more numb and little less overwhelmed. He desperately wanted to stop the hurt he felt. He repeatedly cut his arm, trying to bury his sorrows, each time dampening the voices inside his head a little more. Finally he stopped, and dropped the blade into the snow. He stared intently as his blood escaped from the wounds he had made. It slowly oozed out of the openings along the length of his arm, then rolled down in a red cascade.

He watched the blood; his blood; drip off of his pale skin and sink into white snow below, staining it. Then he laughed. Slowly at first, but soon the sick chuckles shook his shoulders. The flow of his blood out of the cuts slowed, and he ran his fingers over the clotting wounds, coating his fingers with the sticky redness. He then tenderly licked the blood from each of his slender fingers, while a soft smile graced his lips.

"I'm fucking insane" he sang softly as he looked up at the moon. He fumbled in the snow for a moment before finding his razor blade. Stuffing it in his pocket, he picked up his staff and used it to help pull himself to his feet. He took a few wobbly steps, dizzy from the blood loss. He shook his head to clear the fogginess, then took to the air, riding the wind to Burgess Lake.

His bare feet touched down on the ice covering the lake. Frowning, he examined his arm to discover the blood flow had stilled. Desperate to maintain his delirious state, he drew the razor blade out, dropping his staff to the ice. He pressed the blade deep into his wrist. His skin gave way beneath the narrow strip of metal, and blood began to pour from the newest cut. He then pulled up his other sleeve and shakily held the blade in his non-dominate hand. He pushed the blade against his opposite wrist, and pulled it quickly down and across the flesh, making a deep gash perpendicular to the length of his forearm. Blood bubbled out of the depth of the wound and quickly flowed down his arm. He dropped the blade in shock.

He grimaced through the aching pain emanating from his wrists, and picked up his staff. He nearly keeled over, but he clung his staff best he could. His blood ran down from his wrists and dripped from his elbows, splattering onto the surface of the ice. He closed his eyes and remembered the first time he had seen the lake. Clean and pure. It was the first day of his life, and he had been so happy to discover his power. So happy to be alive. He smiled at the memory, but the smile never reached his eyes as he opened them to look at the pool of blood forming on the ice. He prodded it with the end of his staff. Intricate patterns of frost curled out from the bloody stain, carrying the red colour as it spread across the ice. His frost, dyed with blood, crept along the surface of the ice like the blood that throbbed out of his wrists.

He suddenly felt quite lightheaded. Blackness threatened at the corners of his vision as the blood continued to seep from his wrists. With a cry, he collapsed, clutching to his staff as he fell against the ice. Fighting to remain conscious, he rolled onto his back and stared up and the moon. The heaviness in his body lessened as he lay on his back, breathing raggedly. His eyes traced the contours of the moon as his mind raced, trying to understand the cruel life he was born to live.

"You shouldn't have created me! I hate myself more than anything. Living like this is torture. I'm invisible. Useless. All I do is hurt people. I'm all alone. Why did you do this to me?" He screamed into the night, glaring up at the moon. Tears stung at the corners of his eyes but he refused to look away from the moon, demanding an answer. But the silence was unbroken. He felt so lonely. He had no one to talk to. Strangled sobs got caught in his throat, choking him, and he again lost himself in sorrow. Eventually he gave into the fatigue that plagued his body as he slipped into a nightmarish sleep.