Author's Apology: Sorry. In the previous chapter I mentioned a Norse god called Freya. It ought to be Freyja. I think. : ) Greek gods, not Norse, are my speciality. I enjoy snubbing anyone who gets the facts wrong. : ) I also hope that I can keep this all heavy and depressing. Heh heh. Once again, I apologize for my ignorance of life on a mountain. Also, if you're free, would you read Sugar and Spice for me? Lol. But I need some reviews… beg beg beg. P.S. I repeat myself plenty in this chapter. Sorry folks.
I awoke to find myself laughing. Laughing at the sheer insanity of it all. Or was it sanity? I'd asked to live, I was alive. I'd asked to die, I was going to die. It made perfect sense. Somehow. I shook with laughter, watching my own blood slowly trail down my face, kiss my lips softly and fall onto the fresh snow that I was lying in. Somehow I felt light, free, and happier than ever. Alive. Truly, wonderfully alive.
Now I was really, really losing it. Wait, I was already losing it. I even contemplated laughing again. Heck, what did it matter? What did all of it freaking matter?
Did this happen to everyone lost in distant deserts, mountains, islands? Robinson Crusoe? Fancy myself as Robinson Crusoe. All alone, surrounded by nothing but cold, I could cry, scream, fling off my clothes and dance naked down the mountain side. It all didn't seem to matter. It was the freedom thing again.
I laughed instead, to no one, nothing. I was doing something for myself, not due to anyone, not for anyone, not because of anyone, just myself. Trivial as it was. But my lungs seemed to glue together, squeeze, until I could hardly draw breath. It turned to a hacking cough, and flecks of blood spattered the snow. They seemed to grow, and swirl, then all the snow was blood red, and slowly the entire sky. It continued, even as my head whirled for fresh air, until slowly, the crimson scene darkened to a whole miasma of shadow.
~*~
Why? Why? Why? Why wasn't I dead? The sky was a true black now. I'd fainted. They say that cold numbs, and it was true once more. It was the sharp prickling like a red-hot iron no longer, but a sleepy, tepid ache. My limbs seemed to be made of treacle. Slowly my eyes adjusted to the dark and I was able to recognize that I was on a small plateau, fashioned like a pit stop, leading from a crude steep mountain path. There must be civilization on this mountain. It, however, seemed as if people seldom commuted on this particular stretch, because the path was crumbling around the edges and smothered in a thick sheet of ice.
I had to go on. Heaven or Hell had tossed it in my path. Whether I wanted to die or not I had to go on.
I was pushing myself up to a sitting position when my right arm gave way. With a splitting crack, my chin hit the ground and I bit my lip, hard. Could you get tetanus from your chin? Probably not, I mused, the bacteria or whatever were all probably on a vacation in the Caribbean or someplace warmer.
Wincing, I hauled myself up anyway, trying to ignore the metallic, warm taste of fresh blood. I didn't dare to spit it out, lest I should start coughing and pass out again. I tried to imagine the time Rebecca pulled a wedgie on Miss Millet and convinced her that Rose had done it. It kept me going on, up, as I drew strength from that memory of the past that seemed so long ago. Tears crept to my eyes but I blinked them away. I was finally kneeling, starting to crawl the metre or so to the path. At the rate I was going, it would take me all day to reach it. Sweat trickled down my temple even in the mild exhilaration and my right arm didn't move to wipe it away. To my horror, it dangled limply – I'd dislocated it. My left arm throbbed when I raised it instead and when I finally wiped the sweat away, my finger came away bloody. The lump on my head was still oozing, after all. I was hardly even aware of it now, just as excruciating clutch of my arms.
I reached the icy slide at long last. My stupid pink coat had actually stayed in basically one piece though I had fallen off mountains and crawled around in it. From my pack I produced a long metal stick I had snatched off the plane; I didn't know why and I still didn't know what it was. There were several small, strange boxes fastened to it, I unclipped them and put them back in my bag with stiff, frozen fingers. Then, I slid it under my, dug the stick into the ground, and pushed off.
Lucky Lara. I'd asked to go skiing, and voila, I was skiing! I found myself laughing, yet again. It was a very strange world.
