When
he wakes up and it is dark outside, he knows it could happen. He feels it
spread from his chilly toes, up his achy legs till it bursts in his chest
which coughs and splutters accordingly. Sometimes it’s just a cold, a flu
maybe, but he knows at this time of year that it could be so much more. The
world-weariness of a full year now keeps him prostrate on the bed.
Still he resists and moves, feeling
the cold as he crosses his bedroom for the day’s clothes. He dresses quickly,
avoiding touching skin against skin and the cold sensation that brings. He adds
another layer of clothing and then another layer on top of that, just in case.
When he is numb to the frost that has crept through his window overnight, he
parts the curtains and raises the blinds. A grey lumpen sky fills his vision.
After a perfunctory breakfast, he
sets out. He sidesteps slugs and snails on his porch to get to sparkly frost
patches on the long path to work. It is dark so he needs to be careful and watch
out for anything that might come up.
He keeps glancing skyward, not able to
tell if the clouds have shifted position or even broken. The monotone of winter is
particularly oppressive when it is still technically autumn. Nevertheless, the
atmosphere isn’t quite cold enough yet for anything to fall. He does his best
to enjoy the crispness of the air while keeping his hands covered and safely
tucked away.
On he goes, over vales and hills,
along main roads with cars few and far between but speeding as if black ice
weren’t a problem. When able, he takes side roads with few pedestrians
crossing, shortcuts where he can still be alone. If he sees trees upcoming, he
steers well-clear in case a sodden leaf should tumble down from the bush and take him by surprise. He knows he should wear a hat; it would certainly keep his
ears warm but then he wouldn’t feel anything that might land on him. The very
idea of pulling off a hat and feeling foreign moisture there is quite
unsettling.
He perseveres until his path finally
ends and he stands in front of his work hut. He kicks his boots against the
porch step just in case he has waded through any puddles without realising it,
before pulling out his ring of keys. He tries the front door key but it will
not turn, as if water has entered the lock and frozen overnight. With a little
force, he manages it though the sudden action leaves him oddly light-headed. As
he depresses the handle, he barely notices the tiniest touch to the back of his
neck. It drips down and he knows that’s it. Snow has fallen on him at last.
The door clatters open. Stepping
inside, the warmth drains from his face. Embracing the cold, he becomes a part
of it...
