Crumbling Visage

Cold

It tumbled down with a biting, stinging, silent wave of almost surreal coldness. Between all this he stood.

He stood because there was no place to sit. He couldn't sit on the velvety grass nor on the soft sand; he couldn't float in the air among the clouds or with the water as it carried the sand. His legs were aching, tired and hunger was gnawing at him like a parasite devouring him. He wanted to sleep but every time he tried, his eyes couldn't flutter shut and collapse.

He couldn't stand well enough too. His legs were unsupportive, complaining little pests and he thought he'd be better off without them.

But worst of all, it was so very cold. The sun was shining down brightly but to him it might as well be a light flickering in the distance with no real sensation.

The cold was unearthly- it was one that was not merely heralded by the absence of warmth; it was the purest version of itself. He wrapped a hand around himself- as thought trying to infuse the much-needed warmth.

But this cold was not be satiated and goaded away from its goal by any semblance of warmth. It would just not be enough; this cold sought more than warmth to be gone.

So, he walked and walked- till his legs cursed him, eyes ached with exhaustion, stomach clenched with hunger, mind wrangling within itself- for rest, warmth, food and sanity.

He ignored his mind and walked anyway.

At the far end of this place, he paused. There was a grove of trees, an expanse of a waterbody with steam rising from it and a man not unlike himself under the trees.

"Why, hello!" the man waved cheerily. It was not him.

"Is there a...a warm place?"

The man looked at him mutely before pointing towards the obvious.

He merely shrugged and down he went into the warm expanse of water. At first, it struck him hard and cold- the dive threatening to kill him; but then there was a tingling sensation and he allowed it to coarse through him- it was exhilarating. He didn't feel warm or cold- just a strange in between.

But importantly he didn't feel cold.

He laughed with mirth and looked up to find the man gone, waving in the distance and smiling sardonically.

He got out and the cold took over his senses again- he was confused in every sense of the word.

He looked down to find his clothes dry despite his impromptu dive. Frowning, he looked around- the waterbody was gone, the trees were gone and he was in between the grass and sand or the sky and the ocean- his muscles screamed with exhaustion and his eyes sought tears that refused to come. And the cold stung.

He did not move- painfully standing before collapsing onto the in between he stood in. The man bore over him and handed him a branch- the branch of a tree, its edges sharp and a few leaves still clinging onto it. His eyes trailed down to the lower end of the branch where a bird stood stock-still- its eyes were wide open and it was unmoving, clinging onto the branch in a death grip. Ironically, it was a death grip- for the bird was evidently wounded beyond revival.

He did not take the branch- shoving it away.

And then he looked at the man- his lover. He looked at his lover with passion and hurt, with warmth and cold, with frost and heat. The man leant forward and placed a kiss on his forehead- the bird flew away, eyes still glazed over.

Then his lover stabbed him with the sharp end and finally- finally, he felt the cold seep away to be replaced with true and pure and certain warmth.

...there was a faint whisper and then the quietness descended- quite heavily.