Harsh Winds of Winter

The frigid cold air had everyone huddling inside seeking warmth all around Cedar Key, Florida, but 24-year old Gayle couldn't be bothered with such a luxury as she stepped outside.

She shivered at the steep drop in temperature and thanked God that she had bundled up rather well. Rubbing her mitted palms together, she walked to the side of the old cabin where her snowsled was parked.

Just last week, some teenagers down the village had asked to borrow the sled. "Just harmless fun," they'd promised. "We'll bring it back in one piece,"

Well, if one piece meant a cracked runner, three paint scratches and two loose fittings— then they sure did.

It did help that this little misadventure got her outside the old cabin.

All Gayle wanted to do was curl up on her couch before the fireplace, immersing herself in the latest Victorian novel. She'd been told by her grandmother's letters that such a life was not ideal for a young woman her age, but Gayle, in all her deviousness would assure her grandmother that the rumours were unfounded and rather exaggerated.

She knew her life wasn't enviable but she'd spent nearly all her life sheltered in the old pine cabin nestled snugly between two pine trees on the hills of Cedar Key. And she wasn't about to change it.

"Great," she muttered as she glanced once again at the snowsled. The last time she'd ever be fooled by the innocent smile of four 12-year olds; they'd merely handed her the snowsled with a simple "we're sorry, miss!" as though that would pay for the damages her sled had endured.

Typically, her mornings followed a routine, and stepping back into the house, Gayle was pleased to see that the time was still quite early to maintain her usual traditions.

A cup of hot, calming brewed tea, poured into her favorite teacup, and a novel of her choice. She'd sit by the large bay window overlooking the frozen lake. And watch the morning go by, heralding the afternoon before she began her other curated afternoon traditions.

She loved her routine. As much as it was predictable, it also provided a means of comfort to her. She could nestle between the folds of her favorite blanket, eyes closed in bliss as the winds howled incessantly — and secretly dream about the fantasy men that graced the covers of her favorite novels.

Nothing too erotic, just simple comfort and warmth.

Afternoon came with a much stronger chill.

Gayle tossed a couple more firewood into the blazing fireplace and sat on a wooly blanket, rubbing her palms down her arms in a bid to provide more warmth.

Sighing wistfully to herself, she picked up the half-finished hat she'd been knitting the day before. (Some might say half-undone, but it really depended on how you looked at it.) It was a rediscovered hobby that she realized she couldn't do without.

Gayle loved keeping her hands busy. She'd done knitting and crocheting as a child, but somehow lost the passion for such activities in her teenage years, only to rediscover her lost loves in her early adulthood. Sometimes she placed them on the snowmen outside or she gifted them to the old fishermen down the street — but as she wasn't a fan of associating with people, she preferred to gift her hats to the snowmen.

If only they remained there overnight, she thought. Most times, she'd step outside to see that the snowmen's hats had been stolen overnight. She wouldn't have minded it so much if they didn't leave the heads a snowy mess.

The whistling of the kettle drew her attention to the kitchen. She hummed delightfully as she opened her cupboard of teacups; all 71 of them, arranged neatly from the less stated colours to the one as bright as a neon red.

She picked her favorite teacup, a berry blue cup, and poured the steaming tea. She returned to the living room, warmed and satiated as she knitted into the night.

Evenings were the perfect time to end the day in Gayle's opinion because she always ended up curled in bed, with her favorite Jane Eyre story, or new finds from the little bookstore on the main street. Fantasizing and wishing and dreaming.

Dreaming of a life where her hobbies would be more than just that. She'd sell her knitted outfits, write her own books for the maidens to swoon over decades later, or even sell the portraits of the sketches of birds sitting firmly on her bedroom window sill ( she wasn't an artist)

But she preferred to dream. Dreaming meant less risk and less chance of being hurt.

"Skkkkkkkkkkkaaaarrrrccchh—"

The loud unwelcomed crash had Gayle jolting awake. She reached blindly for the lamp and switched on the lights, glancing at her bedside clock. It was 3:41am, and she was still in the position she'd been when she'd fallen asleep 4 hours ago with a novel sprawled on her chest.

Whatever could that be? She wondered as she stood up from the bed and shuffled her feet into her slippers. She took off her coat from the rack and strode towards the door.

It better not be more of teenagers joyriding. She really hated it when they joyride across her cabin. Most times they were drunk and mistook her home for an inn. An inn!

She'd just walked into the living room when she heard the banging on her door. She was startled. But then the knock was heard again; she stood still for a while, contemplating and weighing against her odds.

On one hand, she really wanted to ignore those desperate knocks and return back to her beauty sleep, but then — whoever was at the other side of the door could be hurt or injured or worse.

Sighing, she walked over to the door, unlatched the locks and swung it open.

In stumbled the man, coughing —racking— to be more precise. Occasionally gasping for air as he doubled over, heaving.

"Hello, sir." Gayle murmured, drawing his attention. Her eyes roamed over him with curious interest and concern, "Would you like some tea? You're cold."