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thirty-eight.

੭୧ 𝐩𝐢𝐩𝐞𝐫 ੭୧

Cold.

Matt slept a few feet away, curled in his tattered sleeping bag. Scott slept beside him, his chattering teeth echoing through the silent house. He had given us the last sleeping bags, his only warmth coming from the tattered sweater that he wore everyday without fail and his thin blanket.

A gust of wind tore through the broken window at the top of the house, and my teeth chattered as I squeezed my eyes shut tighter.

Cold.

I tried to focus on the steady breathing of the others. Matt was snoring a little, and Scott was restless as usual. He never stayed still for more than a few minutes at a time. I peeked my eyes open and turned, my eyes meeting Scott's across the dark, empty space, our gazes locking.

"Come here," Scott whispered as he rolled over, facing me.

I nodded slowly, my hands trembling as I unzipped my sleeping bag, wrapping it around my younger brother's sleeping form before slipping under the blanket with Scott. He was barely twelve, but he was twice my size and warm, and I nestled into his side, casting a nervous glance towards Matt.

He was so young, so fragile.

Every night, I worried that when I woke up the cold would have taken him away. We had him bundled up in all of our clothes, all of our sleeping bags. He was barely two years old.

"Better?" Scott asked.

"Better," I replied, my voice trembling. "I miss mom."

Scott stiffened, wrapping his arms around me and holding me as tightly as he could, but before he could respond, the front door opened, and heavy, stumbling footfalls made their way up the stairs, each step echoing through the silent house.

His breathing stilled. "Dad is home. Close your eyes. Be quiet. No matter what you do, you cannot make a sound. Do you understand? You can't—"

I shot upright, the memories vanishing, replaced by the dull aching pain that always came with those nightmares. I took a shaky breath as I looked down at my bed where Grey and Mellie slept, his hand tangled in her fur as she purred contentedly.

The air in the house was still. Quiet. As if time itself was paused, nothing more than a figment of my imagination as I sat on the edge of my bed, trying to get the tremors under control, to ease the burning in my lungs and the aching in my heart.

My heart sank, but I stood from my bed, not allowing myself to linger. I crept through the quiet house, opening the front door. A gentle, icy wind rustled the trees that stood tall outside, a light snow dusting the grass and the cars and the roofs. November was finally here, and I found myself terrified that the boys were frozen back home. I swallowed my fear and closed my eyes, focusing on my breathing for a moment.

When I opened them, the world seemed more stable—less chaotic—and I made my way into the garage, not bothering to change out of the sleep shorts and matching tank top I had worn to bed, I needed to feel the cold. To freeze away the guilt.

My fingers ached with cold as I began to paint the image from my nightmare. A little girl, curled into her brother's chest, his face tinged with pink, his face too tired, too sad to be so young. They had each other, but the world was cold, cruel, and unforgiving.

They didn't deserve what had happened to them.

I painted a little boy. So small and gentle, wrapped in clothes too big for his little frame as he slept, the little boy's eyes closed, his features relaxed, as if he didn't feel the cold.