Collision Course

Chapter 11: The Cold

What is the point of the cold? What purpose does this word with one of the biggest negative connotations anyone could imagine serve? Is it because some higher power decided that the people that plagued this earth needed something to fear other than the animals twice their size? Or is it because they simply like to watch us writher in torture as the biting wind licks our faces and freezes our bones?

The cold is truly an awful thing. At first it seems alright. It seems like it's just a bit of a breeze that cools off warm skin from the baking sun, but then it hits you. Quite literally if you ask me.

The day before was nice and had a cool breeze that wasn't brutal but gave off a nice lick of cold to soothe the heat of bodies or natural sunlight. Then, in an instant it seems, the cold comes bursting in like a wave of icy sea water during the transition from fall to winter. It knocks you off your feet and suddenly the pair of capris and thin short-sleeved shirt you're wearing doesn't seem to be enough to shield you from nature's sword.

If I were given the choice to either always be warm or always be cold I would, without a doubt, choose to always be warm. Heat is something that can be managed by jumping into a large pool of mediocre warm water or taking a bag of ice to the forehead like a smaller version of an ice bath. The cold, however isn't as easy to manage. The only way to stop being cold is to put layer upon layer of clothing on and hope that the sheep wools sweater your cold-blooded grandma gave you works to warm the goosebumps off your skin. Sometimes that doesn't even work.

The cold is something that somehow manages to seep into your bones and chill the marrow hiding under levels of tissue and cells. A simple rub to the arms to get rid of the small pimple like bumps isn't enough to stay warm. Friction is only temporary and only gives off the best heat if the two materials are moving fast enough against each other. Water, however, lasts quite a bit longer than moving hands and fluffy sheep wool.

I guess my long-lasting opinion on the earth's air to blow out the last candle on its birthday cake should've given me some kind of warning not to go and wait, for what seems like hours, outside in the middle of January in Wisconsin. Clearly, I over-estimated myself.

A piercing breeze blew through the fibers of my leather jacket, striking my bones with an unwelcome chill. The gust of wind brought a small burst of flurries riding on the air and through my hair, whipping it wildly around the open air. Strands of my golden blonde hair stuck to me at odd angles and snuck into the open holes on my face.

My tongue flicked out of my mouth repeatedly while I tried to spit out the strands that settled in my mouth. When my strategy of being lazy and refraining from using my hands didn't work, I tried a new method. I removed my soft hands from the safety of my jacket pockets and exposed them to the savage wind.

The harsh air bit my small hands and licked them till they were dry and cracked from being exposed too long. My scratchy fingertips brushed my face creating a rough and almost sand-paper like feel against my cheek as they moved my hair away.

Thankfully, nobody was else was here at the school at this un-godly hour or they would've seen my attempts to be 'cool'. Then again, it was quite unfortunate that no one decided to stay and join me in my pre-visit to hell. Even some frightened and curious freshmen would've be better than the hollow trees that creaked like stiff boards when the wind slapped them senseless.

I shivered as a new wave of goosebumps spread across my arms even though they were covered by clothing. The lonely sidewalk and empty lot were my only source of company while I waiting for my supposedly on-time ride. How come I always found myself staying at this pathetic waste of live-living time longer than I needed too?