writing_shadows

The mirror frosts over as she leans in—whether to get a better look at her reflection or to fall in, it’s hard to say for certain

“Whose eyes are those?” She whispers, running frostbitten fingers through tangled, frozen hair. It pulls and she winces, before pulling on purpose, hard. It’s a sharp, but distant sort of pain. But then, everything has been distant for some time now.

The mirror becomes too frosted to serve its intended purpose and she backs away from it, no longer willing to examine the mystery of herself so closely. Beyond the small dark room, she knows there will be light and life, comfort and conversation

“Were that it not such a hollow thing.” She murmurs to herself, opening her eyes wide in the darkness, letting them adjust to the gloom. No darkness now is ever dark enough, as the light that surges through her veins pulses beneath the skin, giving her an ethereal glow. She holds her hands up for inspection, surprised, still, by the lightness of her skin, the bright, electric blue of her capillaries hiding under the frosted expanses of her skin.

“Pretty.” She opines, softly, closing her eyes against the glow and luxuriating in the darkness. The distant sounds of life downstairs fade, replaced with soft music and the constant whispering of an unseen breeze. With her eyes closed, the tiles under her bare feet give way to soft, crunching snow. She reaches a hand out and her fingertips brush against frost laden branches. The smell of Winter is in the air and it burns the inside of her nostrils, most agreeably

This—

This is real.

When she opens her eyes, the dream will descend, once more, in all of its bland stupor. Is it worth it? This world, this so-called ‘reality’, it aches. Everything is slow and heavy and she moves through it like a stranger, a patient with a fever that will never end, slowly going insane from the tedium.

A sound intrudes.

The door opens and soft footfalls crunch through the snow—no, land on the tiles. The room seems warmer, now and the music fades. She hisses, deep in her throat and opens her eyes to see…him.

Captor, tormentor—

“Heartless, why are you standing in the dark?”

—ally, friend—

“…no reason, wǒ de xīnzàng.” She whispers, faintly, fighting to stand straight in the wake of these visions. His black eyes narrow, but see all

“Come downstairs.” A pause, as he watches her reel, once more. “I will make tea for us.”

She nods and follows him out of the darkness and into the harsh, unforgiving light.

Worth it, for now.