(This story is for two contests: a Short Story contest on Wattpad, and the Young Writers contest for school. Thanks for reading!)
Fat, white balls of puff venture their way down to earth, adding to the already thick blanket of cold that covers everything. Trees are skeletons, pillows of snow highlighting every branch, every twig. The wind, like a wolf, howls, its frozen fingers crawling down my spine and freezing my skin. Each breath I take is opaque and visible in front of me. My nose and ears sting. I have only a parka, jeans, and boots to protect me from winter's dangerously beautiful frost.
The snowflakes swirl around me, making it their intent to blanket everything in whiteness. The wintry pillow is just past my knees, so high that some frosty bundles sneak their way down my boots. Every object is covered, so much that the tiny footprints I follow are almost invisible. But, thankfully, they still create a path. My little sister, Shirley, must have seen the snow before I woke and ran out to play. I've no idea why she ventured so far into the forest, but that's no matter. She's been out far too long; her coat was still by the fireplace when I left, which means she's only wearing her sweater, which is no protection from the frost.
I stumble through the whiteness, taking large, clumsy steps, my eyes flitting over every tree, every bush, until, finally, I see a hint of her. A tuft of red hair juts out from a lumpy pile of snow, and I see the trace of a mitten-clad hand. My stomach sinks, and I lurch forward, wiping snow away frantically, finding Shirley, her eyes squeezed tightly shut. Her freckled cheeks are flushed, and she gasps for air.
I rip off my parka, wrapping her up in it, my breath not wanting to come. Scooping her up in my arms, I stagger to my feet, trudging toward home. “Come on,” I whisper, wrapping Shirley up in warmth as much as I can. “Come on, little angel. Warm up for your big sister.” Around me, the forest prowls, like a waiting predator, watching as its prey becomes weakened. Home is still far away, out of the woods and up a hill. For a venture through a blizzard, a distance like that can be deadly.
Shirley's brow becomes beaded with droplets of sweat, a bad sign for someone out in the cold. Grunting, I stumble past bushes and over logs, having no time to admire winter's deadly allure. Shirley shifts slightly in my arms, her tiny hand grasping mine, cold and vulnerable. My hair becomes loosened from my braid, scarlet strands clouding my vision. Shirley and I have similar features, having the same almond-shaped eyes, rich, red hair, and tan skin.
Her eyes open, meeting mine. “Maki?” she whispers, her voice small, weak. She's sick, I can tell. Just saying my name seems to pain her to the point where it's less of a word and more of a squeak. Snow kisses my face, and I pause my stumbling walk, my heart fluttering with worry. I search her eyes, nodding to show I'm listening. Her hand tightens in mine, and she shivers. “I can't feel my legs, Maki.”
My blood runs cold, slush in my veins, and I begin walking again, faster this time. “How are your fingers and toes? Are they okay?” I am almost certain she has frostbite; she always wakes at least two hours before Mother and I, and probably left as soon as she saw snow. Blizzards are beasts, targeting the weak for their frigid wrath. To my horror, her eyebrows knit themselves together, and I see her emerald eyes grow moist.
“I can't feel them, Maki,” she whimpers, snuggling closer to my body, shivering slightly. “I can't feel hardly anything.”
My heart is a drum, beating faster by the minute. Finally, I see our home, a tiny cabin sitting lone on white hill. Charcoal smoke blossoms from a quaint chimney, and my body warms with the thought of fire. “Come on, little angel,” I say once more, gripping Shirley as tightly as possible, beginning my trek up the hill, exhausted. Walking in snow is difficult, especially at this distance. Glancing down at Shirley, I see her eyes are squeezed shut once more. “Are you awake? Wake up, Shirley,” I yelp. Her skin is icy, and she seems to be perpetually trembling. Murmuring something incomprehensible, she cracks her eyes open the slightest bit, not subsiding my worries in the least.
Crystalline flakes dance around us, taunting my skin with their frosty spell. The wind has been angered, attempting to blow me backward with stinging force. I push against it, my chest pumping with breath. Closing in on our fenced-in yard, I feel a sort of adrenaline rush throughout my body. My steps become faster, my feet growing used to the snow's thick resistance.
After what feels like a century, I reach the fence. My fingers are numb, so for a minute I fumble with the cursed lock, eventually forcing it open. When I reach our stone pathway, walking is easier. Mother has shoveled the ice and snow away, leaving a clear path for me to walk through. My lips tug upward in a victorious smile, and I beam down at Shirley. “See, little angel?” I giggle, a new found skip in my step. “We made it home. Once we're inside, we'll get you some stew so you can warm up by the fire.”
But as I search her face, I feel my heart turn to the ice that surrounds me. Her jaw is slack, her eyes like glass, peering right at me, and snow clings to her skin, making her pale as a ghost. It takes a moment, but I realize her hand has become limp in mine, feeling even colder than it was before. My legs are rubber, my mind becoming numb. “Little angel?” I whisper, shaking her. My feet have stopped their walking, and Mother appears in the door of the house, her hand trembling, covering her mouth.
My knees connect with the stone ground beneath me. My lungs feel dried up, and breathing becomes a chore. I shake her again, this time harder, desperate. “Angel, wake up!” I beg, slapping her cheeks, searching for some warmth, finding none. “Shirley, come on. No more acting, wake up,” I gasp, my hands shaking, cheeks moist. Tears drip from my eyes to her face, sliding down her skin as though they belong to her. In a way, they do.
Mother is by my side, kneeling next to me. She should be crying as well, but she's doing what she always does, fighting her tears for my sake. She did the same thing when the mines took Father. My soul is aflame, and I struggle to look at her, snow and all. “Little snow angel, don't leave me,” I plead, embracing her frail essence. But, alas, my little angel has already taken flight.
