George
He saw her again. The third time this month. This time laughing, dashing and vanishing behind thick trees but she would appear again a few yards away. He’s never caught up to her before.
When he couldn’t find her again, he resurfaced and found himself outside of an abandoned cabin knocking on the door. No one answered and he couldn’ wait any longer. The feeling in his toes had already vanished and the parting flesh of his mouth was blue on the verge of purple as they failed to keep each other warm. The heavy animal fur coat hugged his large body and the ushanka squeezed his head. If he wasn’t currently fighting for his life, he would have noticed that the hat was a couple sizes too small. His creased leather gloves seemed useless since he could still feel the harsh wind biting at every inch of his skin. With every step he took in the moonlit snow, it felt like the wind was growing stronger and stronger. George made his way through the 23 inch deep snow to the side of the cabin. He cupped his hands over his eyes and pressed against the window. An icy tingling traveled past his gloves and coursed through the nerves in his hand. The fog from his breath faded in and out on the glass as he peered through the frosted window. He couldn’t see any light, so turned back, and prepared to knock down the front door. With a sharp inhale and brute thrust of force with his boot, the door lost the battle and slammed on the floor. The substantial amounts of black dust and flakes of snow that coated the wooden floor of the cabin sprung up upon impact. They created a dense gray cloud where the wooden cabin door once stood. George ignored it and rushed inside. He whipped around and successfully shoved it back in place. George’s mind was too preoccupied with thoughts about the warmth of a fire to observe the inside of the small cabin.
Surprised that the door balanced without its rusted hinges, he pushed his large hand deep inside his jeans’ right pocket, it was a tight fit and his blood circulation was pretty much gone. Wincing at the pain that he could still feel from moving his fingers, George shifted around until he felt the warm cardboard of his box of matches.
That’s how frozen his fingers were, to the point where something that is just as cold as him could be perceived as the slightest bit of warmth. He was desperate… more than desperate.
He hurried to the fireplace, bobbing and weaving around the large tables and chairs that were suppressed by unnaturally chunky layers of filth. He lifted the logs from under the ashes and replaced them with the unused logs in the corner. George struck the match on the side of the box and watched the small flame dance before his eyes. He imagined what it would feel like to be engulfed by the flames, and prayed that it would keep him from dying throughout the night. He made multiple attempts to start a fire but the wood was too damp, so he switched them back to the old set of logs. He struck the match one last time and successfully started a small fire.
Unfortunately, like everyone else that has been in this frosty forest, he wished, prayed, that the flame roared instead of whispered. He rose from the piercing cold stone of the hearth. The fire wasn’t difficult to leave since it too, along with his articles of clothing, did not keep him warm.
Now able to focus on his surroundings, he noticed a closed door to his left. Then he rotated his head over his right shoulder, trying to see if there were any other rooms the “cozy” cabin had, but there weren’t. The feeling fading from his once strong legs, George struggled not only to put one foot in front of the other, but to listen to the cracked floor boards creak with every step. He twisted the doorknob, but the door was frozen shut. So with one swift push of his shoulder, the old door came tumbling down too.
He stumbled into a small room. There was only a twin-sized bed and an itty bitty dresser. On top of the dresser sat a red porcelain lamp with a flower-patterned, yellow lampshade wrapped in silky white cobwebs. What may have been a red and yellow rug, was now deeply coated in a layer of an unidentifiable material. The only thing that really concerned him about the blanket on the bed was the small, curvy, body-shaped lump under it. He snatched the blanket from the bed and immediately regretted it. He dropped the crusty blanket and sprang away from the bed, a cloud of dust escaping from under his boot. A wave of spiders and roaches dispersed from under the blanket and flowed down the sides of the bed trying to find a new home. Typically George didn’t have issues with herds of crawling insects but he didn’t expect to see anything living in this torturous weather, including him. After a few seconds, he breathed deeply (not so deep to where he inhaled the dust floating in the air) and opened his eyes. Once again the cabin, with all its warmth and charm, gave him a gift.
A skeleton.
A nasty, horrifying skeleton.
And with the looks of it, the person died in their sleep, kept warm by his friends (the spiders and the roaches). Regaining his composure, he slowly dragged the covers off the bed, cautiously aware of the critters that had called it their home and careful not to break the corpse’s brittle bones. A shred of a plaid pattern was visible if he looked hard enough as he gently shook the blanket, attempting to relinquish the filth on his only legitimate source of warmth.
George made his way back towards the weak flame, which he could have sworn that the flame had shrunk during his creepy crawly fiasco in the room. Not wanting to waste any more time debating with his memory the size of the flame, he positioned himself on the floor against the wall. George stretched out his legs, crossed them at the ankles, and then draped the blanket over his legs and shoulders. The smell of the blanket filling his nose every time he breathed in. Once his nose adjusted to the smell, his eyelids fluttered shut and his mind began to wonder. First, his thoughts consisted of food, warm home cooked soup or the rotisserie chicken with mashed potatoes and green beans that his wife, Wanda, makes. Made. That his wife, Wanda, made. All that obviously made him hungry, so he switched to a roaring fire, hoping his imagination would provide him with a false sense of warmth, but warmth nonetheless. Seconds turned to minutes, minutes turned to hours, and without even knowing, his thoughts had transitioned over the corpse on the bed. Maybe his name was Sam or Earl or possibly Frank. Frank. Frank. Frank. The name replayed in his mind, the dead guy’s name was Frank. Frank could have had a dog. Maybe the dog’s name was Max. A dog that protected him from the horrors of the forest during pitch black nights. Maybe Frank had a wife like George does. Did. Like George did. His wife’s name would be Julienne and she loved to bake like George’s wife does. Did. Like George’s wife did. George stopped thinking about Frank and Julienne. Only Wanda. Wanda. Wanda. Wanda. His wife. His dead wife. 11 years ago, but sometimes he forgets. Sometimes he sees her in the distance. He saw her earlier tonight laughing and running into the woods. He followed her until she disappeared and he was left in the woods with only his box of matches and an empty bottle of beer. He was alone… like the dead guy. Would he die alone too? Would his body succumb to the predatory weather? Would he die like Frank? Like Julienne? Like Wanda? His thoughts drifted further and further, deeper and deeper into darkness. If he hadn’t noticed it before, he noticed it now. It had set in, the obsession, the delusions, the depressing turn of thoughts.
Was he losing his mind? Was he going crazy?
Then he resurfaced.
Frank. Julienne. Wanda. George. Frank. Julienne. Wanda. George. Frank. Julienne. Wanda. George. Over and over, again and again, faster and faster. He smiled, he would join them soon. Frank. Julienne. Wanda. George. He must remember his new friends, his dead love, him. He must remember himself. The point? He didn’t know. He just had to remember. Maybe so he could introduce himself to Frank and Julienne once he sees them when he’s dead. Wanda. Wanda. Wanda. He pictured her in his mind with her long, silky black hair, her vibrant and joyful green eyes, her white teeth that revealed themselves every time she let out a laugh. Oh her laugh was sweet and childish and her smile, bright. Her hands were always warm and her hugs… her hugs were full of love. Her love for people and animals and him. George. Wanda. George. Wanda. He loved Wanda. Love. A warm feeling. She slipped away from his recollection. His eyes shot open, his heart racing.
NO.NO.NO
Wanda. Wanda. Wanda. He must remember Wanda. Then she was gone. No face, no laugh, no smile. No love. No Wanda. George. Must remember George. His eyelids fell once more. Frank. Julienne. George. Frank. Julienne. George. One by one they were gone. Frank? Julienne? Why were those names replaying in his mind? George. George. George. Who’s George?
He would die like the skeleton.
Alone.
Cold.
Dead.
His eyes never opened again.
