The cold bellowed! Here he sat in his blanket, shivering, the heat in the house barely tepid, his hands feeling blue underneath his gloves, his tears soon to be frozen, it was a lonely winter, a cold winter, and he watched the frost grow on the side of the window, the rime that had formed like bacteria under his watchful eye, becoming a creature he hardly knew of, something unknown, something…something…
He couldn't drink all his hot cocoa. The Vicks nose drops had scattered all over the room, smelling like medicine, peppermint. The tree lay bare of decorations, no ornaments, lights, the snow falling faster, the ice pricking him further…
He could die of pneumonia. His quills were flat, unkempt, his body weak, placid, and he unwrapped a pack of cigarettes, ready to smoke, his hands wanting the warmth of fire again…
He was coming to see him. In this cold, lonely house. He coughed, counting the minutes he would arrive, the snow piling around the red home, the cigarette extinguished, the hours passed seeming like years, eons before he could see him again…
He had arrived, covered with a green scarf, holding onto a bundle of oleanders, reeking of venom. But he didn't know that. He just thought they were pretty.
They were layered with white snow, the sodium in this toxic concoction.
"Hi Shadow," he said.
He shook. His fingers were burnt, a little warmth in his body. He wished he could roll up the oleanders, and smoke them with their petals full of drugs. Maybe something that would cause him to hallucinate before he died. His nutmeg. His salvia.
He noticed he held a small silver giftbox with him, other than the permafrosted flowers. He wondered if their relationship truly meant anything anymore. He noticed how antsy he was, how he drank too much, how he once in a while divulged in weed, and his lungs were full of phlegm, the Vicks doing nothing to alleviate his symptoms. His hands felt too weak to tear off even shining wrapping paper. He asked him if he could open it for him.
The frost became a being he never saw, a being he knew he would be in several years, a being that he wished had never existed. Cold, ravenous, eating the glass on the window, its tongue salivating at the sight of escapes, of drugs, of alcohol, and it had climbed all around the edges, looking to devour the oleanders, to end his life.
He opened the present, which was a leather moleskin sketchbook. He wasn't sure if he wanted him to draw anymore, his monsters he saw everyday with his open lids. But Sonic said he liked his drawings. He thought they were very expressive, and he would like him to draw some more.
"My fingers aren't the best, but I could try drawing you something. What is it that you want?"
Sonic smiled. "Just think of whatever is in your head and sketch it out."
He did.
It was a monster that looked like him, with beer cans all around him, the drink causing his organs to be cold, frozen, even his heart. His eyes were slit, as if a smooth knife had cut across them, and they bled, continuously…
It was the best drawing he had made in years.
Sonic told him to take care of the oleanders. And he wanted to. He would devour it like the frost had done, and lay sickened until his illness had ate apart his consciousness, dying like the wicked monster he was.
The frost never seemed to melt, all that winter…