Singed Synapses and Deranged Dendrites

The Cabin (#cold)

It is a pitch-black December night. You turn and drive your car down a narrow dirt road lined by trees. Your car bumps and jostles over deep, wet pot holes making you grip the steering wheel tightly. The way the headlights reflect on the icy fog, you know he is out there. A shiver goes down your spine. 

Parking the car, you grab your bag and a handful of wood from the shed and stumble down the path. Your flashlight is dim. Damn, you should have charged it. He is there with you on the path you know. You go faster. You fumble with the old key in the worn lock. Finally you are in and flip on a light but it provides you no relief.

Why is he so relentless?

You must return to the car to get the rest of your belongings. Just one more trip. You relock the door just to be safe even though the car is just a few dozen yards away. You see your breath in the light that streams through the window. Your breath or his breath?

Halfway to the car, your flashlight dies. You fumble for your phone and realize you have left it on the counter in the cabin. You click the car's lock and unlock button to blink the headlights so you can find the car along the road. Returning, you click it again but the light doesn't quite reach far enough to help you find your way back to the front door. You stumble on a branch.

Picking yourself up, your heart is racing now. You run to the cabin and lock yourself in. You turn on all the lights and while you know that won't help, somehow the familiarity makes you feel better. You turn on the stove for dinner. But despite your empty belly, food is not your priority. 

You must start a fire in the woodstove. You won't make it through the night without it. You tear apart a paper grocery bag and roll it into tinder. You pile kindling on top and light a match. It only helps you light half the paper. You look down at the book of matches. There aren't that many. You can't blow this.

The kindling lights and you decide to add a few more pieces before adding a log. You pray the log is dry enough, that it lights despite the thick bark covering half of it. Success. The first log lights. And then another.

The blaze is roaring now. You cook some pasta. You crack open a beer. You take your jacket and hat off and bask in the warm glow of the fire.

You glance out the window into the dark and there he is. His gnarled fangs longing to bite at your ears and fingers. He looks sad and forlorn with his face and hands pressed against the window. He wishes he could have taken you. You raise your beer to him and grin. And slowly Cold melts, dripping down the windowpane in defeat.