I look down at her and grin.
It's a huge, shit-eating grin that some drugged up kid somewhere has too.
I poke her, my icy finger meeting her cheek.
She looks up, frowns.
"What?"
"They s-s-saay revenge is a d-dish best serv-v-ved c-cold."
The corner of her mouth turns up.
"You're w-weird."
She shuffles her body back.
My grin slowly fades.
How many times have I heard that?
How many people have said those exact words to me?
I lost count after my mother.
The hurt didn't grow like it normally does, but it stabs me.
It's sharp, suffocating.
I know I can just breathe, send some stupid signal around the river, through the woods, under the log, to my brain, but I can't.
My heart trembles.
The sensible part of me has no idea what to do, so it sits back and lets its hold on reality slip.
It wracks.
Then I stop.
I get up, walk away like nothing happened, like I didn't crack.
Because I didn't.
I fixed myself.
And everything is okay again.
YOU ARE READING
An Hour the Freezer
Teen FictionTwo teens. 60 minutes. One freezer. "D-damn it's cold in here," she murmurs, crawling the distance that separates us. "M-maybe th-that's because we're in a f-f-f-freezer."
