Quick update, yey! This is where things start to get, uh, heavier, so to speak.
If you see any mistakes, let me know! (Not a native speaker, so I do as best as I can, heh). Or, like, a thought, a review, a critic, an analysis, anything really, I kinda feel like a ghost sometimes xd.
The "cold", as Elsa knew it, had its distinctions. The change wasn't as radical as the two types of warm, but rather a series of levels. Steps that sometimes went up to five, others three, and others remained in the standard base of cold hands with lilac nails. With the ever-present, subtle tingling ready to climb at the slightest doubt.
Though, sometimes, those circumstances changed without warning. The cold was unpredictable and tricky. And just as you can build a snowman with all the joy of the world, one second of carelessness can make you fall on top of it. That's why Elsa preferred the cold that came from ice, the dry one. The one she welcomed the most, that froze the entire body until it reached the bones. The one that numbed and nullified to the point that you weren't there. That often put Elsa in automatic mode to function as a normal human being. The protective cold. The cold that helped.
The other, the one with the vicious traps, was despicable. It appeared as cold sweat, mostly settling at the back of the neck and along the back. The dry cold distanced Elsa from reality. This one engulfed her to the fullest. It appeared with jumbled memories, it enjoyed drowning her in the truths she tried to forget. It lunged into peaceful dreams so it would feel all the more personal. It was invasive and repulsive in its actions, just like its origin.
Hence the reason she was under boiling water on a Sunday morning, as she had been doing all week.
Only that there were tears this time. That came as soon as she finished throwing up in the toilet, like a wave of pain whose origin she still couldn't figure out. If it was the mourning, the guilt, the disturbing dreams, or the simple fact that Anna's room had stars. The most insignificant detail they chatted about last night. It meant a thousand different things, including the blessing of knowing she held them the same importance as Elsa, and the frightening return to last Monday.
Had this become the new normality? Crying in secret once a day until she found out the reason for all these jumbling feelings? How could she ever feel normal, like this?
Don't feel.
Don't. Feel.
Not the feelings, but the real world. Perceptions. With the continuous grip of her fingers over her crossed arms.
It's not real. It doesn't exist anymore. Conceal it.
Elsa didn't stop until the distance between the skin, her grip and the heat of the water shrank enough to feel it, only a bit. She decided that maybe it was time to ignore motives and actions and continue as if she hadn't been trying to get something back these past five minutes. So, she grabbed the soap and a sponge, ready to sweep away any trace of... of that. Whatever that was.
Or perhaps she did know and it showed when she got to that greenish stain in the middle of her left leg. Anna asked about it, naturally, and Elsa played it down with a shrug and a claim that she had no idea where it came from.
There was no way to remove it from the skin. Logically, it was impossible. However, when these bruises started turning green, Elsa couldn't help but think she was decomposing. Another part of her that died. Or rotted. Or got lost.
One less part of her.
Like those tiny scars by her hip bone, which she sometimes regretted, and sometimes where kind of a little pride of hers. The revenge made a display of rebellion that no one but her cared about. It was perfect that way. A decision one hundred percent her own. That now, was worth mentioning, she would oversee. These kinds of things would be left in the past, right? Like everything else.
There was no point in keep paying attention to it.
There are worse things.
Elsa took a deep breath one last time before shutting off the water and searching for her towel.
Don't feel.
There were other priorities to attend to.
Like deciding whether she should dress in layers or not. She didn't do it yesterday, the thought lost between attending calls and looking for the documents for this whole mess of procedures. The logical answer was a definite no, but the remaining cold was right that it'd be the only way she would feel safe. Besides, the weather allowed it. So, once in the comfort of her habits, Elsa proceeded to undo the bun she had put up her hair to not getting it wet and brush out the knots, deciding to let it loose.
After making sure it looked like she was never there in the first place, Elsa unlocked the bathroom door and opened it slowly, trying to make as little noise as possible, as everyone seemed to be sleeping still. She did the same thing when she entered Anna's room to leave her bag, making sure to close it behind her when she left. It was a fact open doors couldn't be trusted. Just because she hadn't noticed last night didn't mean it was okay.
Not knowing what else to do, where to go, Elsa ended up sitting at the kitchen bar. Playing with her cold and still-kind-of-numb hands. Trying for silence not to be a reason to think why she was here in the first place, or why she still had the sensation of the bile at the back of her throat. Or the fact that she was so out of tune with everyone in this household she couldn't even follow the same sleep patterns.
And what would she say, then, when she gets asked what's she's doing up so early? No teenager stood in jeans and a t-shirt on a Sunday at seven in the morning for no reason. Thought, given what happened yesterday, admitting she had a bad dream would be justified. Or they'll come up with their own conclusions, and she just had to conceal it enough not to give away to further speculations.
Maybe if she started making coffee, no one would be suspicious. But, wouldn't that be too overconfident? It was enough with taking a shower without asking, ignoring the little voice that told her she should have waited, no matter how dirty and disgusted she felt. Even if she knew there wouldn't be a problem at all. Still. Manners.
Luckily, within a couple of minutes, Gerda appeared looking perhaps as mentally exhausted as Elsa. And between one thing and another, they ended up in a casual chat about coffee, its brands, and how to accompany it. The typical conversations to fill possible uncomfortable silences while waiting for something. That maybe shouldn't happen when it comes to family, but Elsa supposed it was normal, after so long without seeing anyone.
Until the coffee was made, mugs were filled, and the thing left was the silence with its inevitable questions.
"You couldn't sleep?" Gerda's sympathetic smile and her tone made Elsa think she probably was talking from experience, so she just shook her head.
"Barely." A part of her —the tiniest, irrational one— wanted to indulge in the selfish act of telling, every time someone asked. It was a sting, or a hum, or a small needle applying pressure until she gave in. But when did that cause anything besides pain? Her family was grieving, the least she could do was have some respect. "It's just- It's hard."
It was the only thing she allowed herself to say, indulging in the ambiguity before drowning more absurd ideas with coffee. They were old things, things that she knew enough, things that already happened, and that, from now on, had to be left behind.
"It won't be easy, I'm not gonna lie to you." It was almost instinctive, how Elsa snuggled against her aunt's chest as she gently hugged her by the shoulders. With that soft, restorative heat and small caresses in her hair. It was so familiar that, for a second, she thought that if she closed her eyes, she would hear her mother humming a lullaby. So she forced herself to keep them open, staring at nothing. For the fear that the tightness in her chest would shift to her corneas again. "But you have a whole family here with you, ok? You don't have to go through it alone."
Elsa nodded slowly, still not moving. She didn't want to, no matter how much it hurt. Because she was alone in this. Always had been. It was just a matter of learning how to cope, as she had to do with so many other things.
Even so, she wished she could hug her mom one more time.
Seeing the look on mini Elsa's face when her mom sings that lullaby it's so heartwarming and heartbreaking at the same time. And, God, a friend of mine reminded me that they're not really the greatest here, but I guess missing these kind of things is inevitable, isn't it?