Pieces of Time

Piece 3- Frost and Forgotten

Alissida

Frost crunches underfoot, the sound unable to cover my ragged breath. Fool, I think. This is what you deserve. I barely register the tears sliding down my cheeks, their salty taste mingling with the metallic tinge of blood on my lips. A whimper escapes me and I sway on my feet, peering hopelessly into the cold, windy night.

"It's not as if anyone will care, you worthless slut," Madame Ferroni had snarled as she raised her fisted hand again, "this is what you deserve." My cry of pain as her fist connected was silenced by a swift, forceful kick to the ribs. Bones crunched, and I lost consciousness.

A frigid wind blasts into me, and I cry out as I'm thrown against the nearest tree, sharp needles stabbing me in the back, cruelly ripping into my thin clothes and blood-streaked hair. I slide to the ground, strands of dark hair torn out, and wrap my trembling arms around my knees. I do not dare raise my eyes to the fast approaching storm. But I feel the biting air, hear the trees howling in the wind, scattering needles over my shaking, broken body, and I dimly register the fact that, after 18 years of hell, I am finally ready to die. My blood-crusted lips crack as I scream, scream into the unforgiving dark, scream into the ice and the snow and the wailing wind, scream at this cruel, hateful world, scream until my voice grows horse and the darkness swirls like a dance before my eyes. I dig my frozen fingers into the solid ground and savour the pain, grimacing as I slice my hand on a buried shard of ice. Blood trickles onto the glowing white snow, the colour a crude imitation of the dress I wore only hours ago.

I shut my eyes against the memory and clench my teeth, waiting patiently for Death's cool arms to take me and drag me from this suffering and pain.

But it is not the voice of Death that calls my name desperately into the pitch-black night. It is not the hands of Death that touch my face, my wrists, my lips, searching for life. It is not the arms of Death that lift me effortlessly from my curled up position on the cold ground, and hold me tightly against the strong, warm body of a male.

It is not Death that whispers into my ear that I'm safe, that I'm free. It is not the black eyes of Death that scan my body for movement, but the deep blue eyes of the man I knew would save me.

Sebastian

A cracking fire dances in the hearth, casting light over the shaking body before me. I shovel on more coal, until sweat drips down my brow, and the room is sauna-hot. Not for one moment do my eyes shift from the girl on the rug, blankets draped carefully over her trembling figure. She hasn't spoken yet, but her wide, fear-stricken eyes tell the story. My knuckles bark in pain as I clench the handle of the shovel tightly, as though I'm imagining it's the neck of Madame Ferroni. That woman was born and bred in the depths of Hell itself.
The figure shifts, her fingers twitching as her bruised, cracked lips form a word.

"Water", she rasps, "water."

I'm on my feet in an instant, striding for the small kitchen. After hastily filling a jug of cool water, I hurry back to the lounge and see the girl struggling to sit upright.
Placing the jug gently on the table, I clasp the girl's shoulders, heaving her into a sitting position. She winces, a taped up hand going to her bandaged ribcage.

I was going to kill Madame Ferroni.

But first, water. I help her raise the jug slowly to her lips, and, with my other hand gently holding the back of her head, she downs the water. Then another jug. And another. Until, finally, her voice comes out as smoothly as I imagined it would be.
"What's your name." She demands, looking me in the eye. Her weak hand grips mine with the strength of a man five times her size, the only indicator that she recognises me.
"Sebastian," I say slowly, praying she recognises me. "Sebastian Meadows."

A moment passes before she answers.

"Well, Sebastian Meadows, it's hot as hell in here and I want to sleep." Her eyes are shadowed with the pain she has endured. "You'd better not snore, or you'll be spending a night in the snow." Just like you did, I think grimly.
She settles into her back, ignoring my outstretched hand, and tugs the blankets up to her chin. She closes her eyes.

"Wait," I call, "Your name, what's your name?" For a minute she doesn't reply, and I assume she's fallen asleep.

"...Alissida Pretorius. Now shut up and go to sleep."

I smile into the darkness.
Alissida.
Alissida Pretorius.

I awake the following morning to an empty mound of blankets, and no sign of Alissida. She's gone.