Page 86 of These Tears

I do imagine walking. Just… turning and going. North, south, doesn’t matter. It’s white in every fucking direction.

And the sun is already fading.

In my mind’s eye, there are only headlines about a woman found frozen. My parents are giving some polished interview about how they saw the signs. Ron is shaking his head as if he hadn’t already abandoned me long before this.

And at the end of it all? Elias. Knowing precisely how long it took me to fall.

My throat narrows, but not from the cold. It’s something shameful, carrying a heat that doesn’t warm.

It’s horrific – the way the mind flips all switches and only leaves one in survival mode. It’s the simplest thing of all. And it brings out the only truth that matters in that moment: I don’t want to die out here. Alone. Faceless, under snow.

And he knows it.

The warmth behind him licks at the edges of my vision.

I swallow. Taste metal. And very slowly, force my feet to move.

One shuddering step.

Another.

Snow crunches under my wet slippers as if protesting the loss of its prey.

When I reach him at the threshold, I look down at his face. The fireplace peers from behind him in mock-invitation, but the blizzard takes whatever warmth makes it out the open door.

‘I’ll c-cook,’ I barely manage. ‘D-do the…. chores. Won’t r-r-run.’

Nothing happens. He doesn’t move. His face doesn’t soften.

‘No,’ he says.

A fresh wave of tremors rips through me as my tongue tangles.

‘What do you w-want?’ I gasp. A sharp sting of air digs into my gullet.

He untangles his fingers. ‘“Small is the gate and narrow the road that leads to life.”’ His gaze travels to the snow beneath me. ‘You might have to get on your knees to crawl through them.’

He could have just slapped me. With a fucking axe. It would burn less than citing the Bible.

Humiliation hits hard and spreads low as I stare at him.

‘Elias—’

The wind takes another bite out of my exposed skin, as if flaying me alive.

He tilts his head to the side slightly, enough for the heat to spill from the house and brush over my legs. A taste. A tease.

‘Show me the difference between wanting and needing. Show me you’re thankful for the warmth and food I share with you,’ he says. ‘Tick-tock.’

All I can hear is my pulse pounding in my ears and the faint hiss of the wind.

Stiffly, shakily, I lower myself. The snow at the threshold soaks through the fabric instantly, biting at my knees, but whatever this is burns hotter than the cold that shoots straight up my thighs the moment my skin touches the ground. A small sound escapes me when my legs sink deeper into the snow.

He watches the whole descent without a single reaction.

When I finally look up, the angle is wrong. Too humbling.

His immovable, solid frame fills the doorway above me even with him folded into a crouch.