Cold Traveler
He was cold. How long had he been cold? How long had cold been so real? He shook his head, blowing hot air into his fingers, relishing the brief flood of warmth it brought. Then, he was cold again. He looked around, his eyes dark in this grey city. Day, night, they didn’t exist here. Only cold. Cold, and a pale grey fog that suppressed the world’s dreams. Kept it locked away, an oblivion of forgotten days.
He was cold. Wandering the grey streets, he glanced at the closed doors around him. They were somehow nostalgic, but they also made him uncomfortable. A flash of memories, down the drain. He was alone in this grey world. But, his loneliness was not saddening. It wasn’t warming either. It simply was. He almost thought about going into one of the houses. At least then, there may be some warmth. But the doors would not open, and he knew it. No warmth here, just the all-consuming fog. And the cold.
Boots clicking dully on the stones beneath him, the sound dulled by the grey mist that hugged close, but never touched. The fog didn’t like him but the cold did. The cold hated the fog, and longed for something warm to cling to. But the man didn’t like the cold or the fog. He knew there was a way out of here, a door, or a window, or even a staircase if the zeppelin was full of led. But the cold slowed his thoughts, the fog darkened his eyes, the swings creaking the cries unheard of a thousand lonely birds.
He was cold. How long…no. Time doesn’t matter. Life doesn’t matter. Death doesn’t matter. He was lost. Lost in the sea of his nightmares. This grey city was his prison, his final story. He was stuck, stuck where the staircase began, and the fires burnt out. No one would know of the cold traveler. And eventually, he too, would become the fog. The ever present reminder of the waters he drank to forget the sins of a life of lost love and lies. His sweet Lethe. He was forgotten, and those that are forgotten, do not exist.
It was cold. A grey city, a silver fog. The memories of broken toys lie behind each door, but nostalgia keeps all away. Purgatory is cold. And its waters are cold and gluttonly feed on the fears of those that traverse it, pulling from the travelers their fear, and their hope. Pulling from them their dreams, and their nightmares. Pulling from them, their very existence.
She was cold. How long had she been cold? How long since she passed the rivers that freed her from her bonds, yet tied chains to her soul? She shook her head, blowing hot air into her fingers…
Little Blue Bear
A little girl cried into her plush bear, its fur rubbed off from this same action, repeated hundreds of times over and over. From the other room, she could hear the yelling and the screaming. The anger that made daddy’s eyes glaze and mom’s face turn different colors. The glass never got cleaned up completely, and she learned to walk with her shoes on. She started to collect the tops of the broken brown bottles, with their odd and exotic names; she dreamed. Heineken was a prince that came to rescue her, Budweiser was the clever wizard, and Corona was her guard and secret sister. An imagination flourished after tears were sobbed into a little blue bear, it’s fur rubbing off from the repeated actions, hundreds of times, over and over. Mommy promised that one day, she’d be whisked off to a magical kingdom. One where there would never be glass, there would never be anger, and her little bear’s fur would grow back. But mommy also promised that she wouldn’t buy anymore white dust. And she promised she would never walk the streets at night. But mommy still bought the white dust from the scary man. And she still walked the streets at night.
Daddy promised things too. Promised he’d never touch mommy, never make her cry, never make her bleed. But daddy always came home smelling like the liquid in the bottles, and he always made mommy cry and bleed. The little girl fell asleep; her tears making her bear a soggy pillow.
Then, one day, men in suits showed up, and a woman that smelled like soap came to talk to the little girl. They asked her all sorts of questions about mommy and daddy. About how often does mommy buy white dust, how often does daddy turn mommy’s face different colors? But the little girl just told them of the adventures she and her friends had. How Budweiser always found a way out of the traps, and Heineken had a pretty white horse, and Corona was always so serious on the outside, but she loved to do hair and nails, and have tea. The little girl told these tales, with a smile on her face, but tears running down her eyes. Reflexively, she picked up her little bear and held it close, giving to it her tears once more. And the woman that smelled like soap, made an odd face. She looked at the little girl that had closed her eyes to the world, the little girl that chose to drift into her own fantasy, where adults didn’t break promises. Where daddies didn’t yell, and mommies never screamed. And where a little blue bear had all its fur, because no one had to cry into it.
“She’s broken." A trembling voice, anger suppressed. "They broke this seven year old girl by their fighting. ********, I hope they rot in prison for eternity.” The CPS woman swore, lighting a cigarette, her hands visibly shaking. “They broke her.” She whispered, a tear running down her face, with no blue bear to wipe it off.
