At this point, she's used to it. Granted, no one is ever comfortable with being dragged by the hair through Minnesota snow. Wendy finds herself, after being with Jeff for so long, retaliating to the violent man in the only way possible; through snark only gained by years of movie snobbery. "A little uncomfortable," she says, "But last month Ted Bundy was dragging me around the same way. He was better at caveman dragging, but whatever." He jerks his hand until tangled hair rips from her skull. "At least you're more gentle than Freddy Krueger was. Man, why is it always me in these situations? One time, I was walking down the street and Norman Bates comes out of nowhere and tosses me over his shoulder. Doesn't compare to the time the Joker broke into my ice rink and- oh, wait."
"Do you ever shut up?" He doesn't even hit her like usual, just glares and continues moving.
"Will my continuous talking free me?"
"No."
"Oh, fuck you." Then she starts whistling. Jeff considers killing her, and wonders why he doesn't. "I'm cold."
"Too bad."
Once back at the old building, Jeff begins to shiver. It is cold, somewhere around zero, and both parties found themselves about to die of frostbite if they didn't find shelter fast. Wendy is throwing things upstairs, screaming and wailing like a banshee for help. Snow covers her hair. The hard cold cuts to the bone. Her empty stomach retches, looking for anything to live on, even her lungs feel empty despite the deep breaths, and sleep deprivation shakes her limbs. She sobbed into the desolate area.
"Help me!" Wendy yelled, and with blue fingernails she fell to the ground, eyes staring at the caved in corner of the floor. She dug her fingernails into the wood, glaring at the splintered wood. On a whisper, "You fucking dumbass."
I'm back, babes! With a drabble, a small little taste of a story I've let fall from grace.