Ice

I can hear her voice inside my head "Let's go home, it's getting colder and we will freeze to death." It was getting colder, indeed, but I had to stay a bit more. The water freezing before my eyes, the white sky announcing snow, it was a sight to behold. I told her I wanted to stay some more. She gave me a disapproving look before handling me her gloves. "Come back soon" she said "the temperature drops quickly after sundown." I smiled at her, a thousand miles away. 

I don't know when it started snowing, I had been staring at the lake for so long that time had lost its meaning. The soft thump of a pile of snow falling from a branch took me out from my daydreaming. I was myself covered in snow, at least three inches. It was then when I realized the light was fading. I stood up and shook it away as a dog would do. My limbs protested, half-frozen after sitting on the shore for so long. When I started moving I could feel needles poking on muscles, my thoes and fingers burning when the blood flow returned to them. That was when the wind started. 

I had been walking for a long time, dragging myself through the snow, hoping to see the lighhts of the town ahead. It was barely half a mile away, yet it seemed to never come up. The wind picked up as did the snow fall. The world turned white. 

I don't know how long have I been walking for, it could be two hours, but it could also be two days, the sky is in constant twilight because of the blizzard. I look around me and I can only see snowflakes. I can't see my own feet, I can't certainly see the trees, if there are any, or the houses, although that is a vain hope. I half-drag, half-crawl over the snowdrift, knowing that most of my toes are frozen dead. My fingers aren't too bad, yet, as I force myself to move them, but I don't really know how much longer I will be able to keep it up. Does it really matter, though? She was right, I'll freeze to death and dead people need no fingers. 

Memories

One of the best memories of my childhood are the birthday parties my mother used to throw. I was born in the middle of autumn, during the Indian Summer, so the weather used to be mild and it allowed us to play outside under the sun. I remember how my mother used to set up games. There was this one where you had to catch sweets on a bowl full of water and then do the same in one full of flour, there were piñatas, and balancing eggs on spoons while walking, running with your feet tied to someone else, sack races, and one where you had to try to pop a balloon attached to someone else's foot while protecting your own. After that, we would eat cake. It was always plain cake covered in chocolate and M&Ms. It was the best cake I've ever eaten.

I remember telling all this to Jack on our first date. He had asked me about my fondest memory and I spent maybe ten minutes talking about it. I had forgotten we had talked about it, it was almost three years ago after all, until now. Today's my birthday and Jack has thrown me a surprise party. Our backyard is covered in balloons and all our friends are here wearing silly hats and colorful clothes. I can't contain myself and start crying. I hug Jack closely, feeling his warmth.

I spend the whole afternoon playing and running as I did when I was a child. All the energy is back and I can almost feel my hair trailing behind me as I did when I was younger. As I try to catch apples with my mouth from a barrel, I forget about the pain. As I blow the candles and cut the cake, I forget about death. Today I'm six again, instead of thirty-one. Today I'm young and I'm healthy. Today the cancer doesn't exist, the cancer that has robbed me of my energy and my hair, the cancer that is going to send me to an early grave. Today the cancer is gone, even if only for today.

Coffin

The phone rang in the middle of the night unannounced, unexpected, like a wild beast scratching at my door. I picked it up warily, staring at the unknown number. 

"Zoey? It's Bridget, George's mother." Something in her voice woke me up in a shock. 

"Yes, has anything happened?" I asked as she broke down in tears. "Bridget, what happened?" 

She sobbed, her voice chocked. I felt as if something was strangling my heart. George. 

"Bridget, what happened? Tell me please." I begged. 

"He had an accident." She said finally. "He died."

No. No. George could not be dead. It couldn't be. It was a lie. It was a nightmare, I'd wake up in the morning and he would still be alive. He would send me a picture from beach in Hawai'i, smiling, tanned. Bridget's voice brought me back to reality. 

"Zoey, I had to tell you. You were together for a long time. And you were still friends. I need you to talk to the others. I can't do it." She broke down again. 

"Bridget, it's okay. I'll take care of it."

"Thank you. I'll call you tomorrow to let you know the funeral arrangements." At that moment I just wanted to hug her as tight as I could. She had just lost her only son. I had lost my best friend. "Go back to sleep, Zoey, I'm sorry for having waken you up." 

I stayed up staring at that horrible machine that had brought me the worst news. I remembered the last time I had seen him. George had just gotten a new job in Hawai'i and he was excited to go. We went for dinner together, for the old times. We joked about getting back together as we always did. When we said our goodbyes he hugged me and promised me he would come back for Christmas. That was out of the picture. He would never come back. 

I tried to sleep, but sleep eluded me. I couldn't stop thinking about the funeral, about how he would be dead inside a wooden box. I didn't want to see him like that. I couldn't see him like that. I didn't want to remember him like that. The George I knew was a vital person who loved staying outdoors, not a corpse inside a coffin. The George I loved would never wear a suit. As the sun rose I took a decision. I wouldn't go to the funeral. 

A stack of unsent letters.

My sister killed herself when she was twenty-six. She slit her wrists open and laid back in the warm water of the bathtub waiting for her life to drain away. When we found her, the crimson water was as cold as she was, my mother fainted at the sight, my father was as white as paper, suddenly I was the one who was in charge, the older sister. It was my duty to take care of all my sister's belongings once her body had been taken away and the bathroom cleaned. I was in her apartment when they took her away, her thin limbs white as marble, her skin unbroken except for those vertical gashes on the wrists and the old scars of other cuts, cuts that had sought pain, not death. I saw how her dark brown hair dripped on the floor, hair that had gone uncut for at least two years since she had decided to shave it all off as a dare. I also witnessed when the cleaning team had scrubbed the bathroom until no trace of blood could be found.

When everyone left, I was alone in that place that had been my sister's and that wasn't anymore. I entered the bathroom on an impulse, I wanted to see what she had seen as she died. The shower tiles were the color of sand, as were the bathtub, the sink, and the toilet, only these were a shade darker, the shower curtain a quartz pink. There was a large horizontal mirror opposite of the bathtub that would have been too high for her to see herself die, for that I was glad. Three molten aromatic candles were sitting on one of the glass shelves next to the bathtub, their smell still lingered on the air, despite the cleaning products, next to them there was a burnt match. I pictured my sister lighting the candles to keep her company as she died and I broke down crying.

I realized I needed to keep myself busy and started packing her things. Our mother had told me that, if I wanted to, I could keep something of hers as a keepsake to remember her, yet the idea repulsed me. I would have wanted to burn it all, just as we were going to cremate her, but we had decided on donating all of it, so I had to sort it out. As soon as I opened her closet I saw there were things that could not be donated, like her leather jacket. The black leather was cold to the touch as I took it off the hanger to set it apart, she had to be cremated in that, she had had that jacket since she was eighteen and she had used it until her last day. It was worn out at the elbows, but it was part of her. As I dug in her closet, the clothes piled up on the bed, a small wooden box caught my eye, it was polished and soft at the touch. I took it out and saw the wave-like engravings that decorated it, if my sister had had a passion throughout her life it had been the sea. I sat on the bed next to the piles of clothes and put the box on my lap. I felt its weight against my tights for a second before pulling the lid up. It was full of letters. I wondered who could have written to her, before realizing the letters were from her. Letters she had never sent. All the envelopes bore the same name, Mark, and an address in Portland, Oregon. 

I took the letter on the bottom of the stack first, knowing my sister that one would be the oldest one. Her writing was as beautiful as it had always been and tears piled on my eyes as I started reading. 

Dear Mark, 

We haven't talked in three months, not since you broke my heart, not since I told you I loved you, not since you tossed me away. I want to hate you, but I can't. 

I can't as I won't probably be able to send you this letter. Because I'm probably going to use them as a diary, to take the weight off my chest. 

I love you and I miss you. And everything hurts, the world hurts. It hurts so much I don't know how to stop it. I went back to cutting myself, you told me you'd be there when I fell back into darkness, but you aren't. I need you, but I might manage without you, I will manage without you because I don't have another choice. 

Yours,

Lee

I perused through all the letters, seeing my sister spiral down out of control, depressed, abandoned, alone. I was terrified of reading the last one, the one where everything ended, but I had to read it, I needed to know the last thoughts of my sister. 

Dear Mark, 

This is the last letter I'm writing to you. The pain is too heavy, it's too much for my broken mind to bear. I can't stand it, I can't stand the feeling of missing you, I can't stand the feeling of being a failure. I can't stand life. This is a goodbye. Not the one I would have wanted, but the one I got. There's much more I'd want to tell you, much more left to say, but what's the point when you're never going to read it? 

You might hear of my death, or maybe not, I don't know if you still wonder about me. If you wonder what have I been doing. I wonder if you will cry when you hear about my passing. But there's no point in wondering. 

My time here is ending. I'm still young and my heart is still pumping, but I'm tired of living. These are the last words I'll ever write. 

I'll love you forever, 

Lee