Cold

It was November 18th, nine in the morning. It was cold where I was, and I was cold, but I couldn’t feel it. My eyes were open. Navy blue, but fading — not blue like his. They’d never be too-blue, like his.

Frost made feathers on the inside of the windows near me, curling and spiking, soft and sharp.

There wasn’t food here, or heat. No smokes. No blankets. I didn’t have much of anything useful I had a couple thin coats around me, and some scavenged pieces of exercise mat under me. Someone had already stolen my boots. If I had been standing, I’d have been shorter than him without them. He stood in the doorway, cigarette at his lips, smoke trailing idly as his too-blue eyes watched me. I’d stopped breathing hours ago, long before he’d shown up. He was too late this time, as he’d been every other time. He wouldn’t come further in, and I couldn’t make him. I looked down at my hands as he touched them, but I still couldn’t feel it.

“Daft bint,” he muttered quietly. He had to know this wasn’t his fault, but all the same, he would feel like he failed me.

I was the one who failed. I couldn’t even wait. Why couldn’t I just wait?

He took off his gloves and he touched my hair; I could hear it rattle, hear it clatter and clack, the beads and braids sliding against one another. Then he let his fingers reach to touch my face. I couldn’t blush anymore. I couldn’t pull away.

I wouldn’t have wanted to, finally.

I wanted to know how warm his skin was. I wanted to know how his fingertips felt as they traced my cheek and my jaw. He did it the same every time. His fingers slid over my cheek, my jaw, then his thumb went over my lips.

He slid his hand into mine.

Every single time, I felt nothing.

Then he closed my eyes.

Then he closed his eyes.

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