It was almost bitterly cold, chilling to the point where my fingers could almost fall off just from a fragile breeze of the wind. I felt helpless against the snow as I fell, my body enveloped by pure white. Yet when I arose, the chill no longer a bother to me, just an incredibly sore and intense feeling overwhelming me. My hands were blackened and destroyed, so maybe the cold had already reached me.

  It took no toll on me, I felt unnaturally efficient, though my vision was extremely blurry without my glasses. I picked up a small amount of the beautiful snow, its bitter cold melting upon my darkened hands.

  The time grew dull on me, whether it was morning or afternoon, I found it practically impossible to differentiate between the two. I walked and walked, dragging my sore self across the snowy wasteland. Nothing but snow, only snow. It was infuriating but also soothing. I’ve always loved the snow, sitting in my study and peering through the windows across the room admiring it fall. The snow pile and pile so high, at some times almost reaching my chin. But now that I’m experiencing the frustration of the solid crunching, my opinion is waning.

  The wind blew so vigorously, my brown hair flailing in the wind with every gust, it was invigorating. My clothes, full of holes and tears from the furious wind. I stripped down to just a tee and some shorts, and lay back down in the snow.

  Someone will find me.

  And so they did.

  I awoke into an extremely warm blanket, doctors and nurses surrounding my every side. “She’s waking up,” said a soft masculine voice. My ears were ringing impossibly loud, it was incredulous how I could even hear words.

  Their hands crowded my personal space, weird machines concurrently being attached to various interjections upon my blackened body. I was scared, but I didn’t have even the slightest amount of energy to move, let alone speak.

  “How you're even alive right now is dazing, your entire body is plagued by hypothermia.” The Doctor looked at me with concern, confusion, and a plethora of many more emotions. His look confused me, what does he mean plagued? And better yet, is it not normal to lay in the pulchritudinous cold and live?

  I tried to speak, mustering up whatever energy I had regained while resting but words could not form. “i… luf…. he…. cold”

  He crouched down near my face, his warmness clashing with my cold. “Please try not to speak… you must be in a lot of pain right now.” He reached onto a desk nearby the bed I was in, grabbing a marker and a whiteboard. “Try not to move a lot, your nerves aren’t exactly in prime condition and I’m unsure if they ever will be again.” I slowly reached my hand up.

  I did not feel pain at all, to be honest, I didn’t feel anything.

  I did not feel my muscle contracting to reach my arm upwards, I couldn’t feel the whiteboard or marker in my hands.

  He looked at me, stunned at the fact that I could even move at all, telling me how normally if anyone tried their limbs might fall off, but I was a “special” case.

  I wrote to him, asking about my condition and asking if he loved the snow. He replied with perplexing information to the first, his words lost upon me. But he did not answer the second, he just stared off into the wall and thought.

  I chuckled in my mind, looking at myself even with these blurry eyes of mine, I looked like a mummy. Wrapped in bandages and extremities from head to toe.