There are still faded splotches of my blood soaked into the beige fibres of our living-room carpet. Mum scrubbed in silence, her raw hands working as if she were trying to erase her own pain. Of course, it’s always an accident, and every time she says she believes me. But no matter how hard I try, I can’t summon shock into my voice — and the quiver in hers betrays us both.
The book was a gift from her (at the suggestion of my therapist). It’s meant to be my diary, a silent helper to ease my troubled mind. It's just like her to seek advice on matters she—as my maker—should have instinctively understood.
Perhaps it isn’t inability but resignation.
I'm not particularly easy to love. Affection can't take root inside me. My body attacks what should sustain it—an autoimmune response. I can't stand the look in Mum’s eyes, always brimming, one drop away from spilling. Her tears don’t affect me either.
The binder’s leather is soft and blotchy; the pages resemble eggshells, freckled with grey, terracotta, and pink like careless toothbrush art. They smell faintly mouldy, with an undertone of recycled paper. Its scent repulses me. My thoughts are heavy as cement blocks, my head ready to collapse.
Frost dulls the windowpane, the icy breath of winter roaming the land. I press my hand against the glass; the cold reassures me that I'm still connected to the world. Most days feel surreal, as though I’m stranded on a different planet, no oxygen, no atmosphere to shield me from the slow poison of radiation.
The sun sets behind the pines, its rays broken and scattered between the branches like the shifting shards of a kaleidoscope. It’s so beautiful, it terrifies me.
I glance at the diary, sceptical. It's as if winter has exhaled across the pages: a frozen lake, black depths yawning underneath.
My fingers brush the edges of the paper—sharp, ready to bite. Already it mirrors my own body, treacherous and quick to turn.
I reach for the pencil. Its tip, pressed between my fingers, feels more like a pike than a tool.
It’s Mum and the good doctor who have sent me on this expedition.
I pause, the pencil thoughtfully balanced against my lip. I picture my mother’s weary listlessness, my therapist’s smug assurance he thinks I can’t see, and I almost pity them as my hand descends, the pencil striking the page with a crack.
Resistance jolts up my arm. Words scrape out reluctantly as I carve into the surface.
Still, I hack away; ice splinters fly like tiny projectiles. Meltwater seeps into the cracks, like blood from a wound. The hardness softens, turns mushy and weak. It’s unsafe here.
They hope there’s something to salvage, some treasure hidden beneath the surface.
I know better.
Winter has its purpose. It stills the heartbeat of the land; it lets you walk where the earth would otherwise swallow you whole.
I feel myself sinking, a queasy pull in my gut. Something waits under the ice.
Whether it's friendly—I doubt.
