The Winter

The city was far too bright for something about to die.

The streets churned with noise, a loud blur coming from every direction that made my thoughts feel heavy and unfocused. I couldn't escape it, no matter how hard I tried. Everywhere I looked, false light bled through the nightless sky above, an unnatural glow that consumed everything. There were no stars to be seen, not one for miles. Only satellites flickered faintly through the steel dome above my head, like dying candle flames. My skin was damp from the heat; every year of this endless summer burned deeper into my bones. Crowds of civilians swarmed through the streets, their voices colliding, their bodies slick with sweat and musk. They were like gnats, drawn to a light that would slowly scorch them alive.

And still, I too was one of them.

Seventeen years ago today, on March 24, 2037, I was brought into this cruel world and given the name Ballona Willow. The city I called home was slowly being eaten alive by human greed. It has been 3,197 days since the last snowfall; I have counted every day and waited through each winter for nothing to ever come. Eight years of endless heat.

As I moved through the crowd, one thought consumed me whole. My feet carried me along the pavement, moving on their own, searching for the nearest driver, for anyone who could take me out of the light, into the valley, beyond the hills, and far from these glass towers of greed.

And so, I pushed and squeezed past the press of hot bodies, the heat uncomfortable, almost unbearable.

Just then, I was snapped from my thoughts, suddenly and sharply. I looked up to see a man in his mid-thirties. His brown, greasy hair already seemed to be thinning, falling flat against his scalp. When I looked down, I saw that he was barefoot, his feet burned by the scorching pavement. He had stopped in the middle of the moving crowd. I must not have been paying attention, because I bumped into him.

That’s what the man wanted me to believe, yet in truth he had bumped into me not by accident but on purpose. He wanted me to pity him.

“Young lady, please, I beg you, spare some cash,” he asked in a desperate tone, his voice slurred as though he were high.

I simply moved past him and kept walking. I knew that if I gave him money, he would only spend it on more drugs. Besides, I had nothing to spare. In my pocket was a single ten-dollar bill, a birthday gift from my mother, though it would not buy much of anything here.

Still, some stupid part of me hoped it would be enough to pay a driver, if I ever found one.

My feet kept moving, carrying me for what felt like miles before I saw it: a parked car waiting for people to get into the backseat. I rushed toward it, afraid I might miss my only chance. Then, just as I reached the car, a small group of people were already getting in. I followed after them, only to have the door slammed in my face. The driver rolled down the front window and looked at me as if I were some dumb kid before thrusting a hand out the window in front of my face.

“This is a private ride. If you need a driver, use your phone to book one,” he said flatly before rolling up the window and driving away.

I stood there, my eyes darting around the lit streets. In that moment, I felt small and inferior. I had no phone and no need for one until now. Phones were for those who had posts to make and friends to call. I had neither. Besides, phones only made people dependent; they turned them into fools, and God knew this whole world was full of fools. This world and its lies were built on the back of a screen. A world I wanted no part of.

When I turned to move, my eyes landed on a woman in the distance, perhaps a street performer, maybe even a magician, I couldn’t tell from here, the streets far too crowded. Those around me seemed to lack any faith; they had abandoned hope long ago. Others like her were seen as schemes and lies. But to me, it was different. I was drawn to the strange woman in a way I could not explain. I was moving toward her before I could even think properly.

Before long, I stood only a few feet away from her.

From here, I could see her clearly now, the way her makeup gleamed faintly beneath the streetlights and how her long black hair fell gently over a laced blouse connected to a long black bell-shaped skirt that flowed around her, dragging through the filthy streets.

To me, she looked almost otherworldly; to everyone else, she was nothing more than a fraud and a joke.

My mouth opened into an O shape, as if to speak, but nothing came out. I couldn't remember the last time I had spoken; perhaps I had forgotten how. Maybe it would have been easier if I truly had.

My mouth opened and closed as I tried to form words, but nothing came out. My mind began to panic as I stared up at her like a fool, and just then a voice cut through the fog in my mind. The woman had spoken for me.

“You want to make a wish, don’t you, darling? I can see it in those big brown eyes of yours. That hope.”

My eyebrows shot up at her words, my eyes widening in wonder. How could she possibly have known? My mind raced to understand how she had read me, but I found no answer.

Slowly, I watched as her dark-painted lips curved upward into a smirk of distrust. It sent a small shiver down my spine. Something was wrong; I could feel it even from here, and still I didn’t move. It was almost as if I couldn’t.

The strange woman continued, “I make wishes come true, but even we witches must be paid.”

Witch. The thought should have made me laugh. Witches didn’t exist, right?

My mind was now screaming at me to stop, to walk away, and find a driver. Yet I knew I would never truly find one, not with ten dollars and no phone. So I stayed, my hand already reaching into my pocket. Slowly, I pulled out the bill and held it out toward her.

That only seemed to deepen her smirk as she took the money with long, pale fingers.

I didn’t make eye contact, my eyes moving toward the ground as I shifted nervously on my heels. My mouth opened once more, but this time a whisper managed to slip out, my voice rough from disuse and nearly carried away by the noise of the city.

“I wish to see the snow, just once more.”

When I looked back up, her smirk now showed all of her teeth, her canines flashing as she let out a chuckle, not one of amusement. No, this was something different, something darker; a sound of cruel pleasure.

“My dear, your wish shall be mine to grant, but I can’t promise you’ll like my methods. Perhaps you should have simply wished for that driver you were searching for.”

My mouth opened again to ask her how she knew what I was searching for, yet nothing came out this time, my eyes drawn to her face for reasons I could not name. But now, she no longer looked beautiful. She looked ugly, for all I could see was disdain.

When I blinked, she was gone, her figure swallowed by the crowd.

I shook my head once, snapping myself out of it. I had no money left, no phone to book a ride, and certainly no hope left of leaving the valley. I finally gave up, turning back toward the west side of the city, toward home.

On my way, I noticed something I hadn’t seen earlier. Perhaps it was because I had been too focused on finding a way out. Surely, I thought, they couldn’t have just been placed there.

There were dozens of them, strung all across the city, some on walls, some on lampposts, and some even planted in the ground by wooden stakes. They were everywhere I turned, even across the giant screens of the skyscrapers. How could I have possibly missed them?

As I looked closer, I could see they were political posters. Some bore the polished faces of the voting candidates, not a hint of dust in sight, as if they had just been placed there. Or maybe this city simply cared more for these laminated lies and the wealthy men on them than the civilians beneath them. Thousands were homeless, yet these flyers stood polished and proud.

My feet sped up each time I passed one. I knew nothing could ever change this city. Not for good. Never for good. The rich would just keep taking more wealth while the poor suffered under the light and heat.

By the time I made it, I was practically running. The hot air clung to my skin, and somewhere far beyond the city, the sun had begun to rise, casting the distant hills in deep orange.

My feet ached from the fruitless search for a driver. My body felt exhausted from lack of sleep. Still, my legs carried me until, at last, I stood in front of an old, run-down apartment complex, what others called the bad side of the city. Yet I saw no difference between those who swarmed here and those elsewhere; those here only lacked the wealth to disguise what they were.

I looked up at one of the apartment doors; above it was the number 482. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a set of silver keys. Quietly, I unlocked the door before carefully turning the knob and opening it.

Inside, a small, worn-down yet familiar living room welcomed me. My eyes darted down the short hallway to my mother’s room. There were no lights, and the hallway was dark, almost impossible to see through. Quietly, I walked to the kitchen and turned on the light switch, illuminating almost the entire room. Then my eyes landed on a note on the dinner table. I reached down and picked it up.

“Dear Ballona,” it read. “I’ve been working longer hours. The office has been rather chaotic lately, nothing you need to worry about. I have already left for work. I do wish I could have spent more time with you on your birthday. Maybe next year. I hope you and your friends had fun. Mom.”

Right, I lied to her again. I did that a lot. It was simply easier that way. It was better to tell her I had friends than to say I had never had any and kept searching for a way out. She would have only worried if I told her the truth; besides, Mom always believed my stories. But maybe it was simply because she wanted to.

I sat back down, letting out a sigh that quickly turned into a tired yawn. The lack of rest was catching up to me. I switched the light back off and crossed the darkened living room to my bedroom, opening the door and stepping in.

My room was even darker than the living room. I had blacked out the one small window in the corner by tacking thick, heavy blankets to the frame, swallowing any and all light from outside. I closed the door behind me and flipped on the wall switch, my tired eyes burning at the brightness in the small room. On my walls hung posters of old bands that once saw the stars, and in the middle stood a twin-sized bed. Beside it was a shelf with an old wooden record player that looked out of place in this world of electronics, and next to it was a clock that read 6:46 a.m.

My eyes were swollen, stinging, and twitching with tiredness. They were starting to close on their own. I switched off the light, plunging the room into darkness once more, before lying down in my small bed and closing my eyes. I knew I needed rest, yet sleep never came easily to me, not even when I was exhausted. My mind never seemed to shut off.

I lay there with a million thoughts running through my mind, but there was one that kept repeating over and over again: the wish. Surely that woman had to have been a fraud who robbed me of my ten dollars, a mere street performer. Witches didn’t exist. Still, anxiety filled me. I felt as though a timer had started somewhere in the back of my mind, slowly ticking down.

After what felt like hours, my mind finally drifted off to sleep, but not for long.