A Prose With No Direction

as hot as ice

I am an ice queen.

They say my powers are too dangerous and that people should fear them.

But even I fear my powers as well.

They say I live in the coldest parts of the world so no one can approach me.

But even I shiver in the cold.

They say my misanthropic existence lives in isolation.

But even this misanthropist gets lonely... 

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What the fuck am I even writing?

I lay on my loose-leaf covered desk, scraps of paper and crumpled up writing scattered around. I place my pen down, allowing my arms to hang loosely below me as I twist side to side on my chair. 

I don't think I can become a writer.

I look at my window towards the vast and clear blue sky, admiring its beauty for inspiration. I watch as birds soar through the sky, reaching for heights I know I can never reach, and the sun burn its way through the day. I wonder and wonder and wonder for something—anything—so that I can draw inspiration to jumpstart this novel. 

Unfortunately, nothing comes up.

I eventually give up, this damn head of mine always thinking but when I want it to think, it doesn't even bother to listen to my pleas. Legs walk themselves down the stairs and into the kitchen, stomach controlling my movements as it craves for its meal of the day. As the hand grips the handle of the fridge, and its other companion grabbing the leftovers from the meal last night, eyes wander over to the trash bin where Hugh's little slip of paper lays. Nothing but that scrap remains in it.

And yet, I don't bother to use that bin for trash. 

Once my meal is prepared, accompanied by an espresso I don't usually enjoy, I sit alone in my dining table, looking at the emptiness that surrounds me. 

Many, many, many years ago, this place was a house of endless noise.

Nowadays, this place is a home for eternal silence. 

As I sip my coffee and scroll through my phone, a notification pops up on my screen.

A message, it tells me. From Keira.

I haven't heard from her in years.

I click on the message, leading me to our private chatroom that I haven't used since I attended our school. As I sip on my piping hot drink, I notice that the first word she typed was Ben, a boy we two were good friends with. 

We were really good friends.

I continue to sip my drink as I read the long paragraph she sent me...  

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In the end it says, he hung himself. 

I can feel the knife that has been stabbed into my chest be pulled out by my attacker. 

Hung... 

... Himself?

Pitter-patter. 

I set the phone down, endless chills and goosebumps running down my spine.

He's dead...? 

Ben's... 

Dead...?

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I sit there in silence.

Shocked.

Even though it's been years... 

Even though it's the past... 

Even though our friendship ended years and years ago... 

Why the fuck do I feel sad?

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I slowly get up, the news making my head spin which ended with me falling onto the table, the espresso spilling onto my bare thigh. The piping hot drink burns into my skin, its warmth so hot that it doesn't feel hot anymore. 

It feels cold.

The drink feels as hot as ice. 

I only look at my reddened thigh, a good part of it burnt. 

As I stand there, just in silence and in shock, another notification pops in my screen.

I stare at it a good while before opening it. 

It's from Keira again. 

Clara, he left letters behind, the message states. He even left one for you. 

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I hastily wrap myself in my cardigan, placing a surgical mask around my face. I glance at Hugh's paper, knowing fully I would regret this later. 

I pick it up and dial his number. 

"Hello," he says.

"Hugh," I reply. 

"Who's calling?" He asks. 

I hesitate, breathing shakily. "It's Clara," I answer with as much poise as I can handle. "I need a ride. Now."

Pitter-patter. 

"Please."