Two Weeks Prior

I believe in love.

No, not the silly te quiero kind of love. I believe in the love that makes your heart stop, but at the same time, beat so erratically that you can barely breath.

Te amo.

I love you.

God, how I wish someone would say it to me. I wonder what it would feel like. I hope that he would look into my eyes and tell me I'm beautiful.

I'll glide down the stairs in the lovely new dress that I got. It's silky texture gracing my soft hips and round chest as if it was made specifically for my body. There, he'll glance up at me, and in that very moment it will seem like the world stopped for him. I'll be his, as he is mine.

I dream of him, "My love, you look so truly breathtaking," he exclaims.

My soft brown eyes finally meet his as I finish my descent down our long spiral stairs. I respond shyly as to not be vain, "Oh dear, you're much too sweet darling." I flutter my eyelashes. As I gaze longingly into his tawny hazel eyes, I lean up to run his soft blonde hair through my fingertips. His golden hair, much like mine, shimmers against the pale moonlight seeping through the windows. I whisper softly into his ear pulling him close, "I love y-"

"Lucy!" I snap up from my bed, startled from my incessant daydreaming.

"What?" I growl down the stairs, slightly sullen.

He yells back up as I peek through my door, "I need you to get dinner started, and clean up the house while I go to town to get some more groceries!"

"But-but Grandpa I just kindled the fire for you."

"Young lady," he pauses for a moment as if to gather his thoughts, and I knew I really did it then. Back-talking after he's worked so hard for me and my safety.

I walk down our short set of stairs knowing to choose my next few words carefully since he had such a short temper. "Yes Papa, I'll clean the house, and start dinner for you until you get home," I finally release with a stubborn sigh as I look into his reposed fathering eyes.

"Mhm, that's what I thought you said," he gruffly says, ruffling my long hair. He passes me, striding towards the door with his long sturdy legs. "I'll be back in about three hours, don't forget to lock the door, and do not by any means walk outside." He shrugs on his coat and yanks on his boots.

"Yes sir," I respond. His protectiveness was completely normal for me. For the majority of my life, it's just been him and I.

"Good girl," he says before shuffling out into the frigid, unforgiving world.

I sigh again, frustrated at being left to our small disheveled house. I wish grandma was here... Although she had died almost ten years ago, I still yearned for her presence. Her delicate smile that always urged me to read more and do better. She was the mother I never had. My mom, Layla, died when I was born, and that was it. The only thing I knew of her was her name. As for my dad, it was the same thing. His name was Jude, and he was the scoundrel who left me for dead at my grandparents doorstep. At least, that's what Grandpa says anyways.

Often, I find myself wondering to odd places in my mind. Sometimes, the places I went to, left me feeling withered and dry like a flower that I had forgot to tend to. Other times, I was blessed with a serene picture of Grandma's warming face.

I begin to wash the pile of dishes that was left from neglect between Papa and I. We would recurrently do this to the house, disregard the mess until it became too much. It was especially bad after she died. I was only eight when she did die, and together my grandpa and I didn't just turn to ashes, we melted. The figures that we once were, was disheveled. The images we carried of each other deformed, and deteriorated before our sad, sad burning eyes. The house we lived in wasn't the same, and each day it faded further from what it used to be.

I was too young to understand gratitude and appreciation, and I hate that. I hate it so much.

I scraped the bright red tomatoes into the trashcan.

My throat always tightens when I think about her, and I hate that too. I hate it so much that I hate the word hate. It makes my eyes flare with red when I think about that silly word. The word that should only be used in the most extreme situations.

I remember when I first read that terrible word in a book. The book I can not recall, however the word is what is ingrained into my small, feeble mind. Hate is what I learned is not a word to be messed with. Especially that day when Grandma told me I couldn't have any candy. I cried and howled until my face turned red, "I hate you," I said. "I hate you so much!"

What an awful color. Red.

It's unsightly, almost ghastly. I only see red in the worst situations.

Grandma scolded me after that incident. She tilted my chin until I looked at her directly in the eyes, "Now Lucy, you look at me now, and you look at me clearly. You will never say that word to either of us ever again! That word was meant for the devil my child, under this roof you will never hate, only love. For love is the most magnificent gift God has given you, and you will cherish it."

For then, I had realized the error of my ways. The books I read after that became childish, for I recognized they were about hate. They always had hate in them. So I wondered if that was what the real world was like. Hateful in every way. Searching for things that will never give them unadulterated happiness.

It was five hours later that I began to get worried. The grilled chicken salad I had tossed together lay on both our plates. Untouched. The kitchen I spent two hours cleaning sat still. Unblemished. My heart beat became erratic. Unstable

It was the same for two more days.

At first, I figured he got worried about the storm and stayed in town, and so I couldn't comprehend his disappearance.

"Do not by any means walk outside."

I know what he said. God, did I know it. It was practically ingrained in my mind since Grandma died. After she never came back that one mournful day, he never let me leave the house again.

So there I sat by the front door. Praying and praying that God was with Grandpa.

I hopefully gazed out into the screaming storm. The snow lashed the broken trees as if it were trying to punish them for being there. I know exactly what would happen if I went out there. I would be just another thing to knock over and shout at. I'm not sure what I would even do if I made it to town. How long has it been? Seven years? Almost eight I suppose. I shiver at the thought. The only person I have talked to is Grandpa and my many books.

The storm lasted for seven more days, and each day I dreaded the next.

I knew he wasn't coming back after the first week but I still hoped. I really tried to hope. I hoped my optimism would overcome the new fate that had been brought upon me. I knew that the ugly, surly, disgusting fate was true, because each day I cried more and more. The pessimism of my oncoming life was too much. It was hard to drink my water, much less eat my food. I knew I had to though. Grandpa would be mad if he came back and saw that I lost sleep or weight. So for him, I kept on.

On I kept for another four days.

Functioning by this time became too much. My hair was matted and my face puffy and unclean. My eyes were dull.

It was bound to happen. My whole life has been about me overcoming death. Watching, waiting for the next moment to strike. Death always laid at my doorstep. Now was my turn to wish I was for the taking.

I realized at last that I had to leave. The food had run out and I must have been going insane. The next day I decided I would desert the barren place that I once called my home, and hopefully survive the cold three mile trek into town. In good weather it may have been fine, even for my small unfit legs but it was unruly to even consider going in the deep snow.

I set out my grandma's old snow boots that were much too big, and my warmest dress and shawl. I can't believe I'm doing this I thought.

My anxieties reaching a new cutting-edge record as I woke up that bitter morning. I threw on my clothes and stepped out into the frigid cold. My feet crunched in the deep abyss of snow and my hair immediately began to fly into a frenzy. With each new step I counted until ten and then I would start over. The counting helped me focus on something other than my numb toes and fingers. This method always worked for me because it gave me hope. Thinking about just ten more steps in the right direction was a bliss to my frosted body.

I itched to adjust my shawl, but right as I began to reach towards it, it flew away. It flew away just like everyone around me. I knew chasing after it would be pointless because it knew to keep it's distance. The wind seemed to blowing in sharp bursts away from my destination.

My fate seemed relentless.

I had already counted to ten, one hundred and fifty times. My small steps began to get smaller and my hope seemed to fade. Perhaps I had wondered in the wrong direction, I could've sworn that it was straight once I passed the old tree. It seemed as though it had been years since I'd last seen that old tree and decades since I left the house.

My nose must've looked like a tomato by now. I attempted to keep it warm by bringing my shaky fingertips up to it and exhaling hot breathe. However, my body temperature must've been so low that it hardly warmed it up.

500 tens I had reached. I stumbled and fell in the fathomless snow.

I'd once read, that by the time one's body temperature reaches below 95 degrees Fahrenheit they would have hypothermia. I questioned what this was after I read this word in a book. I researched it in my library, and discovered that hypothermia occurs in extreme circumstances and requires immediate warmth. The body begins to lose heat faster then it can produce and so it stops sending oxygen to parts of your body. First, it's the toes, where a loss of feeling or numbness will begin to occur. Then as it grows up the body, a person may become confused, possibly disoriented which can lead to severe warning signs. Paradoxical undressing will occur in severe cases where a person begins to discard clothes, believing it to help. This causing rapid heat loss, will simply hasten the process of a slow, lethargic death. Eventually sleep will overcome ones well-being as the heart freezes over.

I grip my dress tight reminding myself even through my delirious state that I will not be found naked underneath this pure white blanket. I begin to get up despite my debilitated state. Refusing to die.

I was straining to stay awake when I hit 620 tens. Such feeble steps I must've been taking but as I looked up, I saw it. I saw light just as darkness was beginning to take over the dewy sky.

I stumbled over the snow stricken pavement hoping I would find some consolation in an innocent bystander. But there was nothing. The streets lay barren in the cold ruthless wind.

Despite the lights that surrounded me, I was standing in darkness. My body began to shrivel and my arms curled around my legs. My body had been shaking for so long that I forgot that it wasn't normal. But in this moment as I lay against a box adjacent to a foul pungent smell I knew this was the end. Perhaps it was my in-cohesive state that led me to this point, but I didn't care. It was bound to happen. As I said earlier, death had always been after me. Haunting me. Surely waiting for my maniacal demise.

It was here, at this point in time that I must've gone completely mad. My eyes that were frozen shut opened for but a split second. My shivering stopped for something warm was calling my name. I leaned into its touch. Its arms embraced me, but the touch was gone as soon as it came, and my heart grew slower. My breaths uneven and shallow.

Vociferous shouts came closer to me until a deafening sound rang against my ears. I was incoherent but I felt something. Something rough but warm before the murky shadows completely consumed me.


Wowowowowowowow, it has been WAY too long since I updated. Here's the second chapter and I'm feeling pretty lit right now. This was a good chapter. Took a hot minute but guess what! It's doneeee. More chapters shall be coming soon :)

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