It was a start. Four walls, a door, windows that looked out onto sunshine. A cellar to keep vegetables in. Blue sky above us and the golds, browns, and tans of a November without snow.
Then the warm autumn breeze changed its face to a cold winter wind, and my bright expectations faded to thoughts that staggered between survival and escape. As December came and relentlessly turned into January and then February, I knew that the wind wanted me gone. It didn’t care if I left while I was still alive and able to say goodbye, or if I lay down in the bed and died while burrowing in the blankets, trying to hide from its abuse.
The wind leaked into the house and bit with its cold teeth, sneaking up the back of my neck, and puddling at my feet making my toes ache. It howled and moaned, delivering my mind into dark corners with no hope of spring or warmth or light or human voice.
I began thinking of it as my trouble. Like a chronic disease that cannot be cured–that keeps fierce vigil at night and greets in the morning with hateful vigor.
This piece of flash fiction won 2nd place in the Trifecta Writing Challenge on 5/17/12