Unpromised Home

the snow rips your heart out

'in which you search for a bathroom'

At least you weren't starving anymore. That was a bonus. You were alone again though. America was called off somewhere by the same woman who brought the envelope up to his office leaving you to stare blankly out the window. You were also left with a warning. Simply, it was that you had to stay in his office. But really, where did he expect you to go? Mars?

You huff angrily, glaring out the window. It had begun to snow heavily a few minutes ago, and it clung to the small sill on the outside of the window. The brown grass barely peeked through the growing coat of white.

You cross your arms, gripping tightly against the sleeves of your jacket. You always liked the snow. The way it could completely change the surroundings in only a matter of hours. Completely submerging everything it can in the rolling white, leaving it only to a person's memory to know what lies underneath.

With longing wrenching at your heart, you place your palm firmly on the window, the heat from it causing a fog to form on the window. The flakes fall harder through every passing minute. From insignificant and slow, to a hard-handed determination, the dime-sized flakes further their suffocation of any life that remained into the growing winter.

Your throat tightened. Maybe you were the one suffocating. Unable to face the ever-burdening reality that grew slowly around you.

Your hand clenches into a fist as you drag it down the window. Your body... No, your entire being aches with anguish and anger. The sudden burst of emotions felt as though it was tearing your body apart. Bone from ligament from muscle. Nothing felt right as tears rolled down your face, clouding your vision. Your forehead rests on the cold glass as a guttural sob falls out from your throat.

You were stuck here. You were wholly and truly, stuck here. You want to wake up. You want to. So, so desperately. You want to wake up. You want to wake up, with little to no recognition of any of this. Simply writing it off as some odd fever dream you would never have to think of again, and returning to life as you knew it.

You wouldn't miss this. Living so confused and so out of touch with everything and everyone around you. You would go back to the hum and flow of your life. Graduate university, go to med school, finally becoming a doctor. It was what you were made for. Every ounce of your effort went towards this dream. Your dream. Your dream to help people.

A laugh comes suddenly from within you. It was dry. Entirely humourless and pitiful. That dream was nothing more than a poor joke now. Maybe that's simply for the better. A joke better left in the past. Never to be thought of again, except for late at night when you can't sleep.

You blink slowly, staggering to your feet. Pressing against the window for stability, you wipe the tears from your face with the rough sleeve of your jacket. You squint your eyes as the pain from your injured cheek flourishes across your face. You had likely reopened the scab wounds and the lingering salt certainly didn't help your case any.

Pulling the hand you had raised to your face reflexively away, a sigh falls from you. Blood. You could feel it dripping down your face now that you had noticed it. Your stomach churns. The discomfort found its home in the pit of it, growing with the movement of the blood as it falls further down your face.

Your hand sits awkwardly in front of you. Extended as though you were about to moments away to giving the empty air your hand for a handshake. Your gaze was blank as you watch the red fall around the fingers it had laid on. Flowing down to drops of crimson that threatened to spill onto the hardwood floor.

The blood felt strange. Foreign, even though it clearly was yours. Your stomach churns again as you clench your hand into a tight fist. Your bloody fingers dig harshly into your palm. The blood smeared across your hand as your mind tumbled with thoughts.