the broken

Chapter 2

DECEMBER, 2008

Dan

My favorite types of walks have always been ones taken in December.

I've always loved the way the wind freezes the tip of my nose, my fingers, loved the cold air, how it twists its way through my clothes, no matter how many layers I wear.

December is cold and unforgiving, but it's consistent.

Today, I watch the dark clouds twist, watch the snow swirl through the air, let it settle on my shoulders. The wind tugs at my hair, my clothes, and I walk slowly, letting my skin freeze, watching the wind move.

These streets have my footprints worn into them.

As each step brings me closer and closer to school, I find my steps feeling heavier and heavier, and, without even realizing it, my feet vary off path until I'm standing in front of the park from yesterday.

Blinking, I look around, slowly, tiredly, before sitting myself on the swing.

I am too tired to push off today, too tired to breathe, so I sit there quietly, staring at my feet, lost in thought.

I am so lost in thought that I don't hear the footsteps approaching me, don't hear the creak of the swing next to me, don't hear anything at all, until a warm, rumbly voice cuts through the air.

"Aren't you cold?"

My head snaps up, so fast that colors swirl in my vision, curl under my eyelids, and I have to clench my fists into the rusty chains to keep myself from falling backwards.

The owner of the voice sits next to me, long lanky legs kicking back and forth childishly, and I stare, eyes wide, startled. He has dark, floppy hair and cold snowflake skin and eyes made of broken glass, shards of stained glass that swirl together like a kaleidoscope. He is impossibly long and impossibly pretty, and he stares at me with a crooked smile.

After a shocked, silent minute, my mouth falls open. I close it, only to open it up again.

"Um. I guess so?"

At this, he shakes his head and hops off the creaky old swing, making his way over to where I am. With a fluid movement, he has shrugged off his jacket and draped it over my shoulders, and roses bloom across my cheeks.

"My name's Phil, nice to meet you."

I wrap my arms around myself to stop myself from shaking.

"Um. Dan. My name is Dan."

At this, he smiles, the kind of smile that tastes sweet.

"What are you doing out here on a cold day like this?" he says, settling back down on his own swing, staring at me as he swings his legs back and forth, arms wrapped around the chains. His eyes are unwavering.

I pause for a minute. Close my eyes. Count to six.

"Thinking."

His jacket smells like cinnamon, and raspberry shampoo, and it makes me dizzy.

"That's dangerous."

I laugh, but it sounds empty and cracked in the cold air, and I can tell he hears it too.

There is a moment of silence.

Finally, he speaks up.

"Do you have somewhere to be?"

The waves splash onto shore.

"I guess."

With a soft smile, he hops up off the swing.