Northern_Lights_2016

19 Crooked Home Courtney Henschel Whistling wind accompanies bitter, unforgiving cold. It mercilessly gnaws at knuckles, nips at noses and batters breath — your breath. Your voice still echoes in the hallway of this God forsaken house, so useless in striving for Home. Where you lie sleeping like forgotten buds of springtime, drawing shaky breaths through purpled lips while white air cuts like glass — a bed, so perfectly sound and shallow, taunting you through layered cloth pathetically clinging to your broken body. That body, so soiled from use and abuse, shuddering as if an operated machine. The clicking of teeth are screaming so loud in your deaf state, cackling and clawing at your frozen eardrums. What could only be explained as divine intervention drags you from the sunken mattress and worn sheets, offering an opportunity one could not turn down: sunlight. Your frost-slickened floors show mercy as you scramble towards the window, crying out to welcome a familiar face. It seldom appears—a beautiful memory buried beneath choking black. Always dangerous to look at, but never more than now. Eyes dilate to such a point they’ve forgotten light, gulping unfiltered beams and bringing darkness back to tease. You desperately fumble around for damned shadow glasses. Sputtering and puffing, your fingers graze over the smooth frames. You clutch as a greedy child, eagerly sliding them upon your fallen face. With them, you stare, blessing every minute until it would disappear again and leave the planet in iced wasteland. You watch — who knew how long— in awe-struck anxiety for the awaiting fade making you squirm. You are longing for forbidden outdoors, though you aren’t so foolish as to think you could survive. Your tension further swells as the light does not settle back behind dusted storms that surrounded it; so peculiar. For days, your sun shines on, warming the frozen planet. On the twelfth day you dare outside — a rather bizarre color poking through defrosted dirt. It was unlike anything you’d ever seen — so oddly foreign, albeit exciting. Stranger yet, you really see something of interest. Another, not unlike yourself. You screech and scuttle back into Home, panting and sweating — something alien without fever. You were convinced the surrounding area was dead; at least, that’s what you’d been told. It was easy to believe once illness struck your family, your stomach churning at the disturbing food source. Despite this, you remained alive. None other than yourself; that’s how it was to be. Surprise takes a toll on you — emotions are no longer a normal occurrence. You snort and huff, becoming extreme- ly displeased. What if they come — or God forbid — speak to you? Could you even recall how to talk? Slowly peeking out of your door again, the figure moves much closer. Fright forces your hands to slam the heavy wooden blockade. The only combatant is your sickened curiosity. Creaking open for the third time, your door was very unforgiving, allowing itself away from your control as the grip of an unfamiliar hand takes hold. Your feet shuffle back as she tiptoes into Home. Her skin, glossy and gray, appears to have the grip of Death. It wants to fall off her body at any moment — so devoid of life and color. Hollow and dull, her eyes look too big and disturbingly greedy. Fearing she would begin grabbing, you move in her way. Her cracked lips part and twist, distorting into a disgusting smile. Her teeth must be porcelain — still so white and pure. It was not an uncommon replacement in the Days of Plenty. Her arm extends out as if to touch you, though your already skinny gut retreats further into your abdomen. Your feet advance forward another step, body tense and ready to protect Home from this intruder. This baffles her, as if she were expecting an open invitation. Her pale lips part again, drawing in a shaky breath before her croak of a voice sounds. You’ll let me in, won’t you? Her voice was faltering and squeaky; dry and roasting in her throat. Your neck allows your head to shake, denying her access into Home. Her expression turns sour, dripping with distaste of your response. As if — you dare refuse her? With a quivering hand, you reach out. You make contact, and watch as she crumbles into dust before your eyes. The hopeful planet begins to darken once again, and Home accepts you back inside with the quiet click of the lock.