it is winter, and when aspen exhales, she can see her breath.
her thin sweater and red scarf do nothing to block the frigid wind as it tangles her damp hair and seeps through her clothes. she doesn't mind the cold, though. it feels pleasant, in some strange, morbid way.
she shuffles slowly along the sidewalk, with careful, steady steps. aspen doesn't recall the walk to school being so long and time-consuming. she pulls her wind-chapped lip between her teeth and chews as she concentrates on her strides.
fingers dance at the base of her slender neck, fiddling anxiously with the delicate teardrop opal pendant; a habit from too long ago, triggered by darkening thoughts, usually.
he was the one who gifted it to her, she remembers, and hastily drops her hands, shoving them deep into her pockets, nails biting into her palms. her fingertips feel as if they've been frozen, then rapidly boiled; they practically burn.
yet, she forces herself to straighten her back, put on her brave face.
she's hopeful that things will get better, that they have to.
because aspen is certain she'll break - permanently, this time - if they don't.
YOU ARE READING
drops of mercury
Historia Cortashe's just a little bit lost on her way to happily ever after, armed with a heart that's spinning out of control.
