The Definition of Dysania (A Collection of Short Trepidations)

ᒪ-O-ᐯ-E

The stinging wind causes tears to form in my eyes. I can barely see anything, but the building ahead has almost a glow by itself—in this desolate white wasteland, its inherent warmth sticks out like a beacon. My heart flutters faster in my chest and I smile involuntarily. With how the sky looks right now, coupled with the blankets of snow that already cover the street, we might be stuck together for a couple of days.

Sunken in my mind, I sigh in happiness, daydreaming about binge-watching a movie series and cuddly warmth. The day this snow melts will always be too soon. The weather has been unpredictable recently, though. He says that it's just climate change—but I'm still worried.

Summers reached over 100 degrees this year, and we're in upper Nevada! Storms have been our constant, but it does not reflect our relationship.

Our bond is warm and fuzzy and all I could ever possibly want. Before, it seemed impossible that I could ever be so in love—but now nothing seems impossible.

I reach the creaky porch, and my legs ache from walking all the way through, what now looks like, 3 feet of snow. It's almost reaching the bottom of the handlebars. I look up to the sky for a few seconds, while an almost imperceptible wave of dread washes through my veins. I have never seen the sky so grey...

A memory flickers and my grandma's voice says, sadly,
"Perfect isn't realistic. It is also never sustainable—because if you try, then it becomes more about BEING perfect, than enjoying the perfect.
Then the entire process becomes worthless."

A shadow of doubt writhes in my mind, but I shake it off. It's just my anxiety, did I take my meds this morning?

The door opens in a flurry of movement and I startle, almost falling off of the porch, if not for the warm hand that envelopes mine now. A sweet laugh.

"Ah! Sorry, didn't mean to startle you—I just saw you standing out there and..." he trailed off as he got a better look at my expression, which I almost forgot to fix. I relaxed, and a smile formed easily to reassure him, and the light in his eyes came back to return the warmth. He is a beautiful fairytale, all wild, with warm eyes and sunlight-blonde hair. My prince, come to save me once again.

"I'm fine," I say after a short pause, "just a bit lost in thought." I reluctantly turn my head to the ongoing storm of cold. "How many days do you think we'll be stuck inside?" I turn back to see him grinning mischievously and a chuckle almost comes out of my chest preemptively.

"I don't care," he says with warmth in his eyes "I get to spend time with you, what more can I ask for from life?" Tears prick at my eyes and can't tell if it is from the cold or this dilemma in my mind. I banish the feeling with a hug, and we walk inside.

We have a small home, but it is so toasty inside all the time. Such a comfort, to have somewhere to burrow away from the world with my light of mine. He makes hot cocoa in the cramped kitchen, and I head to the couch in the living room to smother myself with blankets and their warmth to stop the chills running up and down my body. I don't even truly feel cold anymore—just the absence. Of warmth. It's just the needless compulsive shivers that annoy me.

He waltzes into the room with a bright smile and sets down the cocoa, which is filled to the brim with marshmallows. There is a glee in his eyes as he sits down next to me and fixes my blankets so I can conserve more warmth. He doesn't mind.

Suddenly I feel claustrophobic—but the warmth is helping my chills. I can withstand it. I snuggle into him and take a sip of the cocoa. Well, more like a bite, with the amount of marshmallows. I wish he didn't put so much of them in.

"Can you turn the TV on?" I ask him.

"Okay." He grabs the remote and turns on the TV, but all that comes on is static. "That's strange," he mutters, "focus on your cocoa and I'll try to figure out what's wrong with it."

As he gets up, I grab onto his sleeve with my hand not holding the drink. "Stay," I ask, with an almost pleading tone.

"Okay, it's probably an issue with connections in the storm anyways." He settles back down and I absorb more of his warmth. He's my very own space heater sometimes. I need it often, with these harsh winters and dull summers.

I take another sip of the cocoa and can drink it this time. I can reflect on the peculiar taste for only a second until my stomach feels like it is being stabbed. I choke out a gasp and drop the mug. It shatters on the floor. It was still warm. I sputter like a fish out of water and it feels like my lungs are on fire.

I am a catalyst of pain.

He hasn't moved.

I yank on his sleeve wordlessly as I double over, and he gets up and walks to the other side of the room. My eyes widen in shock when I can look up.

He's smiling. He mocks my wide eyes and he looks insane and like he's having the time of his life. My hands are trembling uncontrollably. I manage to gasp a 'why?' before I can't speak anymore. My throat burns like I drank liquified hot coals instead of chocolate.

For the first time I'd known him, he looks angry. Furious. But he swiftly hides it under a manufactured smile and I realize how much practice he's had with it.

"'Why?'" He mocks, "WHY? Because I want to be free of you and your gilded cage! You use me like a puppet and I hate every second! I will NO LONGER be your character—I want to be myself!" My eyes narrow and through my coughing fits and shaking arms, I make myself rise from the couch. I use the armrest for support, but for now, I am standing on my own. I see a flash of fear in his expression, but it goes away quickly under his self-importance. He thinks that with the space of a room between us that he can escape my influence. I pin him there with a look, and utter the words:

"Vale, mi princeps." And he disintegrates, but I can hear his wails as the warmth returns to me. My chills are gone and the poison dissipates. I stand up straight and stroll to my bookshelf.

He wouldn't have had to use much poison in the first place to kill me when I was that weak.

My physical pains are gone, but my self-loathing has a sword and is twisting and turning it like clockwork in my heart. I am bleeding out my despair mercilessly, and I can almost see it stain the floor parallel to my footsteps.

What, I think to myself, would it take to get the formula perfect? This is the third time a boy has tried to leave me. I pick up Grimm's Fairytales from the shelf and flip to Beauty and the Beast.

Maybe this prince will be able to handle loving a monster. Tears drip onto the pages.

I will do whatever it takes to create perfect true love for myself. Like from the fairytales.

Whatever it takes, I remind myself as I reach for my conjuring book.

Even if I need to use my soul to create them.