I Never Liked the Cold

I Never Liked the Cold

I never liked the cold; it always made me feel numb. But after everything that’s happened, numbness is a comfort. The icy wind hit my face, biting at my cheeks and lips. The blizzard around me almost felt alive, like it was trying to swallow me, but I couldn’t stay in that house another second. I pulled the hood of my jumper tighter, trying to trap what little warmth was left. I marched onward, the snow swirled in thick waves, confetti from a celebration – one I was never invited to. Each step away from the house was a comfort, like shedding a layer of pain. The snow crunched underfoot, and the nearby trees bent in the wind, as if bowing to nature’s primal fury. White stretched across the ground like a blanket, unbroken except for the blemishes left by my shoes. My feet were soaked, and my fingers ached from the cold. I didn’t care. The further I went, the more I could forget.

Things hadn’t always felt like this. When my father was still around, you could even consider us a family. But then he left and ran off with someone half of my mother’s age, like trading in a car that had served its use. That was seven years ago. No calls, no messages, no contact. Just gone, and honestly, I preferred it that way. Things were tough, money was tight, but we managed. My mother, my sister and I. We had each other. Until my mother got sick. The treatment didn’t work, and the doctors stopped offering hope and started offering sympathy. One night, she fell asleep and never woke up. That was two years ago. Her funeral was held in the middle of winter, wind and sleet slicing across the cemetery like the sky itself was grieving. As we lowered her casket into the ground, I remember shivering. I never liked the cold.

After that, it was just my sister and me. Until he moved in. The man who turned a broken home into a haunted one. I didn’t think my already miserable life could be made worse, but I guess I was wrong. At first, he smiled a lot. Said he wanted to help us out. But he always saved his worst moods for Sundays – my mother’s favourite day. I became his punching bag when he was drunk, or angry, or even just bored. Once, he slammed me into the wall just for talking when one of his games was on the TV. I touched my ribcage; the bruises may be gone, but the memories remained under the skin. I went to call the police once, but my sister begged me not to. “He’s a good guy, really,” she said, tears beginning to form in her eyes. “He just gets upset sometimes. He’ll change.” But he didn’t, and I stopped believing her. It hurt to see just how broken she was as well.

I stopped feeling safe in my own home. Strangers started coming to the door, men with twitchy eyes and trembling hands. I turned them away. Once. Then he hit me so hard that I could barely stand. These strangers would stay for a few minutes, a few hours, or sometimes a few days. I peeked into their room one day. Empty bottles and syringes on the carpet. He caught me and pinned me by the throat to the wall. “Do that again and I’ll kill you,” he hissed. His breath reeked of liquor and made me want to retch. The blow to the side of my head came so fast I barely saw it. The floor welcomed me quickly.

But today was different. He joked about my mother, laughed about her death. Sneered at my father’s absence and said he was the smart one for leaving. I snapped. I screamed. I struck him. He made me regret it; I have never felt pain like that. So, I left. I walked out of the house and into the storm. I never liked the cold.

I pushed through the growing onslaught of snowflakes, and the wind shifted behind me as if urging me forward. Trees blurred past, their branches dancing and twisting in the gale. The world was white noise, and I let it carry me. The howling wind eased a little, and the snow thinned as I climbed a hill. The trees fell away, and I found myself standing before a frost-covered road and a bridge. It stretched across the river like a scar. Black steel against a canvas of white. Pillars rose like cathedral spires, kissing the sky and vanishing into the clouds. The wind stirred, and the cables creaked like a ghostly choir. They called to me.

I stepped forward, shoes crunching softly. Maybe this was it. Maybe this was where the blizzard had been guiding me to. I thought about everything that had happened – my father’s absence, my mother’s last breath, my sister’s broken promises, and his fists. The cold inside me matched the cold outside. Maybe this was for the best. Maybe I didn’t belong in this world. I climbed the railing, hearing the encouragement from the cables. I sat on the edge Water rushed far below. If the fall didn’t take me, the cold would. I smirked at the irony – I never liked the cold.

I gripped the rail tightly as I closed my eyes. Breathed deep and listened one last time. Metal groaned. Wind sang. Water grumbled. And – Thump. Thump. Thump. Not my heart, something else. I opened my eyes and saw a blur move through the snow, growing clearer. Fast. Four legs. A dog.

He slid to a halt beside me; his shaggy brown coat was dusted with snow and glittered with icicles. His tail wagged wildly. Without hesitation, he leaned his head against my hand that was gripping the railing, looking for attention. I blinked, bemused, and my fingers twitched, numb from more than just the cold. The dog licked them gently. Then –

“Stop that dog!” a voice called.

A girl stumbled into view, bundled in warm clothes, cheeks red from the wind. She hurried towards us, slipping slightly as she reached us.

“Thank god,” she panted, clipping the leash to the dog’s collar. “I thought I lost him for good.”

I looked at her properly. She was about my age. Shorter. Hair pulled tight under a beanie, save for a few strands escaping in the wind. Her eyes were the colour of the sky. Grey. Cold. Beautiful.

“He’s quite fond of you,” she said, surprised. “He doesn’t usually like strangers.”

Then her stormy eyes drifted past me to the railing. Her smile faltered, and her brows furrowed, and she seemed to notice for the first time what I was doing. She didn’t say it. Didn’t have to. She’d seen it. Seen me.

She hesitated a moment. I looked down and realised my feet were half hanging over the edge.

“Hey,” she said softly. “Would you help me walk him home? He can be a handful sometimes. Maybe after…we could grab a coffee?”

She held out her hand. Her smile was small and unsure. But it was real, and it warmed me. I looked at it, at her, at the dog. I took her hand and smiled back. Maybe the cold wasn’t so bad after all.