A cold wind...

[kris]

Maybe, I should have figured it out.
Maybe there's no sense at all...
just an endless path of dreams.
--

Saturday, June 6th, 2007
1:46 P.M. M.S.T.

After yet another long winter and seemingly all-too-short spring , summer has finally made its way to Boulder. The sky is as blue as can be and the sun is bright as warm weather makes itself at home amidst the city Dimly, one can hear the sound of lawnmowers running as just about every family in the neighborhood is taking advantage of the balmy weather to get some work done outside before nightfall comes, dropping the temperature a good twenty degrees or so with it. Such isn't the concern of a very familiar-looking brunette that lays in her back yard on her side, her head propped up on one arm as she smiles at the person across from her. All it would take is a few second's staring to recognize her as the Angel of Winter herself. She's not dressed much different than she normally would be in a white wifebeater-style tank-top and a pair of denim cut-offs that leave most of her legs exposed, although it is rather strange to see her face so warmed by emotion. There isn't much visible about the reason that she is beaming so beyond a tanned, well-muscled arm... but there doesn't need to be. All that really matters in the amber of this moment in time is that he speaks, his voice a low and rough thing that is capable of stroking along her spine as if his fingers were doing the work.

I don't think I'll ever get tired of this.

What, the weather?

No, Sachi - of seeing you smile.

The brunette chuckles, her cheeks reddening slightly.

Flatterer.

It is his turn to laugh, the sound touchably soft and seductive to her ears. It's enough to stoke the heat in her eyes... meaning that it's doing exactly what it was meant to do. One of his hands, calloused from hard labor, rests upon her hip before sliding upward, the sliver of pale flesh that is exposed lovingly caressed with a familiarity born of practice.

Now what would I have to gain by lying to you, dear? We both know that I'm a horrible liar.

True enough--

But if you don't believe me... I'll just have to prove it.

His fingers ascend higher, coaxing a pleased gasp free of her lips...

"Winter must be cold for those with no warm memories."
-- Terry McKay

Monday, August 24st, 2009
4:27 A.M. M.S.T.

The door's slam rings out like a gunshot in the darkness, an uncomfortable silence reigning in its aftermath. One could almost think that the sound was indeed fatal to the pile of flesh and bone that has gone deathly still, brown curls reduced to strings and cords that lack the shine of health... of life itself. Unblinking eyes are equally bereft of presence as she sits amidst the turmoil of her bed, white blankets and sheets torn asunder from their usual order while the pillows have been scattered to the winds. Hunched forward over her stomach as if she had been stabbed there instead of where he wounded her, there is no blood to be seen; the damage has been done on a level that transcends the physical, reaching far deeper than a knife to the heart ever could. It is only after the ears have had a chance to recover from that shock to the system that the sound of her breathing can be heard, every exhale jagged as they escape her lips. Every breath is a labor, her throat and lungs both attempting to rebel against the rest of her body. It is an arduous battle to keep the upper hand, one that she finds herself focusing on in the name of keeping her sanity intact. Unfortunately, one of the simplest processes of life does little to distract her mind from the venom his words injected into her veins, her prized mind thrown into a maelstrom of chaos that even she can make no sense of. About all the more she can catch onto are brief snippets of a single sentence, the words themselves deceptively short and simple.

He... he's... a lie... it was... all a...

Trembling like a leaf in the wind, Sachiele's overloaded mind finally sends the signal, allowing herself to cry. Tears spill from her eyes in a seemingly never-ending stream as she curls up into a fetal position on her side of the bed, the cold absence in the empty space beside her yawning wider and wider as it threatens to consume her whole.

I'll deny, I'll resist...
I'll survive... exist.
--

Saturday, April 2nd, 2011
3:17 P.M. M.S.T.

The idea of time healing all wounds is one that has been shared, time and time again, over the years. Likely born of Mother Nature's way of dealing with injury through processes and chemical reactions, what has become proven true of anything that does not kill the bearer on a physical level has been falsely applied to the realm of a mental, a place where there is no such rhyme and reason. There was a time that I would have fallen victim to that fallacy, believed it to be true with every cell of my body without so much as a second thought… but if Father Time has proven anything, it's that whoever made the decision to say that about mental wounds didn't have a clue about what they were talking about. I've long since lost track of the days since it happened, since he happened... since the number would be a figure that would only serve to prove how very pathetic I have become. All the more that matters, now, is to find him so that I can put an end to him once and for all. Then, and only then… will I find peace.

The wind toys with the curls of the Angel of Winter as she sits on the small balcony outside of her bedroom, her back to the wrought iron trellis that served as a safety measure and her denim-clad rear end seated on the cement beneath her. Dressed otherwise in a simple white tank top, a worn blue mug is held between pale hands as eyes the cold blue of a glacier's depths gaze out over the vast, barren landscape of the last few years of her life. Even if she's got no more of a sense of smell than any other person, that doesn't stop her nostrils from flaring as instincts older than human civilization try to take the predator one step closer to her prey. Unfortunately, just the same as any other day that the hunter has tried to use a more… instinctive method of finding the man that turned her entire existence upside-down, all the more she picks up is the overwhelming pungency of her neighbor's crocuses. A derisive snort clears out her nose as Sachiele shakes her head, bringing the mug of green tea up to take a sip… and also to purge her nostrils of the sickly-sweet scent of before. One of these days, she is--

'Eternal Winter' by Through Darkness blares from the simple flip phone beside her, jarring her back to reality. Not bothering to check the caller display, she flips the cell open and puts it to her left ear. When she speaks, her tone is bereft of emotion, aloof… distant, like a January night.

Willows.

A pause; she nods.

Understood. Thank you.

Those two polite words said for professional appearances, Sachiele snaps the phone closed and deposits it beside her before she closes her eyes and tilts her head back. Whatever news she received is enough to bring the slightest of smiles to her lips; it does little to warm her expression, but there's something… maddening about it.

Soon...