I Am the Animal (REWRITE)

One

Here is a list of facts I knew about the situation I was currently in:

One: I was afraid of heights. This was a new and rapidly developing phenomenon, but a perfectly practical one, something that I had realized the second the plane took off and I watched the scenery outside of my window shrink as we ascended higher and higher. I had pressed my fingers to the window, watching with a thick sense of nausea roll through my stomach as my hometown of Los Angeles, California disappeared. 

Two: My hair was blue. It had not always been blue, but I quite liked it like like that; it made me noticeable and seemed to suit my personality more than my natural chocolate curls. Of course, my soul was 'made of ice,' according to my mother, and the color of ice was blue.

Three: Alaska was cold, mountainous, and boring, which all goes a little bit without saying. It's just implied. When someone said "Alaska," my brain went "Huskiesandsnowandmountainsandholycraphotcocoaandsleds."

...I hoped that wasn't too stereotypical of me. 

I was sitting in my brother's cozy little living room in his cozy little cabin with a fire in the hearth and the television playing static, because the satellite had been knocked down the other day by a brutal storm, and my brother, Devin, hadn't been home to fix it yet. I sighed, scrinching my toes in my slippers and twirling a wisp of blue hair that had fallen out of my bun. 

This had been my home for six months now, and I hated every second of it. It was winter here, which meant that school was surprisingly rare due to harsh weather. 

That was really the only plus. 

It hadn't really helped that my brother was home maybe once or twice every two weeks off doing God-knows-what with God-knows-who, but at least he left at least three hundred bucks when he left, sometimes more, so that I didn't starve to death. I could practically trace the route to the small grocery store -the only grocery store in town, actually- in my sleep. 

Let's just say that we had inherited a large amount of Nutella in our cupboards.

Devin was 24 and already a veteran of Afghanistan, but not by choice. He'd been hurt pretty badly while he was fighting about a year ago, and the doctors say that he probably wouldn't be the same ever again; he'd taken a bullet somewhere vital and it was a miracle that he was alive.. That was the only info I had, besides the fact that I knew he had PTSD. 

Outside, it was snowing lightly, and wolves were baying in the distance. I glanced at the clock on the wall. Nearly 10:00, but already pitch black outside. If this were California, then the sun would have just went down. I felt longing hit me like a semi- truck when I thought of Cali, of all my friends and my old school. I suppose I kind of brought my own exodus on myself, seeing as my blue hair was the 'last straw' for my mom and dad. I guess it was only natural for them to dump me states away on my PTSD'd brother who could barely take care of himself, let alone me, right? (Please detect sarcasm...)

Someone was knocking on the cabin door, sending me metaphorically flying in terms of thoughts. I blinked rapidly and stood up, walking through the short hallway to the mudroom that led to the door. I let it swing open, and found myself having to look up, up, up.... 

The man at the door was so much taller than me that it wasn't even funny, and he was really good looking, too. I did a mental double take when I took in his sharp, angled features. His eyes were covered by sunglasses, which threw me off. It was ten at night, so why in the world would he need those things? Was the moon to bright for him?

His hair was very blonde and very tousled, like he'd slept in the forest, minus the branches and twigs. Thousands of freckles dotted his high cheekbones and the perfectly straight bridge of his nose. He was wearing a black Fall Out Boy t-shirt under a thick winter coat, and I could see, even with the heavy jacket, that his biceps were very, very impressive, as well as the rest of his body. He was fit. His jeans were black and had holes in the knees. He had a pair of cherry red Beats around his neck, the cord running down into his coat pocket. I could faintly hear AC/DC's Highway to Hell leaking through the speakers. He was wearing black Doc Martens on his feet.