• My Wintry Existence
    By Nick Zielazny

    I stand alone in a vast, icy waste. This prison is all inside my mind. I can taste the cold on the tip of my tongue; it’s a very subtle taste, almost nonexistent. But this taste protrudes, probes, finds its way into my synapses, snapping messages to my numbing limbs. It says run, but I cannot. I can never run, never escape my own inner hell. But this place is the antithesis of hell. Though hellish in its design, I rather enjoy it, in a masochistic, self-punishing way. It mangles me, it tangles me. I am at home.
    When I finally do move, an overpowering sense of grief makes me fall to my knees. The crackling snow beneath my knees reminds me that no matter how subconscious this is, it is real and it is a danger. My knees have become purple and swollen. I cry to survive, the warm liquid pouring from my eyes cutting through the numbness. My tears are my only form of survival. I cry continuously, cutting myself with the zipper of my jacket to bleed, another source of heat. I flay myself, pouring pints and pints of my own blood over me to keep warm. I am at home.
    I sleep, the blood loss and the weeping bringing an air of melancholic slumber over my freshly wounded body. Though unconscious, I sadly still feel the cold. I want so badly to stop it, to carve this cancerous infection from my mind. But, as always, it lingers and spreads, attacking my vital organs, as well as the obsolete ones. My lungs fill with arctic air, making my breathing unsteady. My heart pumps blood to my open wounds, weak and rapid. My mouth fills with the taste of bile, stinging my throat. My minor organs, my optional organs, cause my body to feel immense pain, though my skin is beyond a little frosty. I wish that I could sleep forever, my mind almost, just almost, unaware of this nerve shattering agony. In all this pain, I am still at home.
    I finally wake, stiff from my nap. Or at least, what felt like a nap. The sky has gone from a slightly milky gray, to a deep, malevolent purple, eggplant. Eggplant would be the most amazing thing to eat right now. My stomach growls at the prospect of any sort of food. I realize that I haven’t eaten in days. This isn’t abnormal for me when I’m in this place, this crystalline world of my own creation. But this time my hunger overtakes me. I stand quickly, ignoring my own inner aches. I drag my wet, tired, self loathing body into the forest. I find myself lost in an endless world of frozen birch trees. The faster I walk, the thicker the forest becomes before I come to its end. An impenetrable wall of trees stands before me, daunting. I am still, still and in shock. This place is a prison. I slam my trembling fists into the trees, hearing bones snap. I cry out, my voice unheard. A wasted voice, I am at home.
    As I give up, I sense a presence, correction, presences. I turn slowly, scared, nearly paralyzed by the fear. I hear the hot, feral breathe of the wolves. I look at them, their faces familiar. They are my demons. They crawl from the frosted grass, their teeth bared, and their eyes brilliant. They see the blood that I drenched myself in, they snarl. As they close in, I know what I am: the prey. I am their meal, their sustenance. They will survive on my flesh, my meat, my major and minor organs still decimated by the cold. Hunted, I am at home.
    As I lie on the ground, literally torn to bits, I look up and see the demons crawling away. They’ve had their fill of me. I am nothing but shredded sinew and organs splayed across the forest floor. I have given up, the only thing I have left to give. Palpable emotion rips through me like a bullet, I feel used, abused. I am nothing, pure nothing. As I drift into my own blackness, I feel myself being lifted. I open my eyes. I am laying in a cabin, a tall homely woman feeding me soup. She is a sweet widow, the only one who stays in my empty mind besides the demons. I smile at her, a tense, forced smile. Though she’s taking care of me, healing my wounds, renewing me, I resent her and this place, this cabin. I lay quietly, hoping that my thoughts don’t become words. My thoughts unspoken, I am at home.
    The days pass, and I begin to heal. But this cannot go on. I feel immense guilt for using this woman as I had been used. I eat her food, use her bed, wear her clothes, and leech her hospitality. I feed on her like those hungry demon wolves. I have become a wolf, I have become a demon. I suck the life out of those who touch me, who tempt me. I am the demon of temptation, trapped in a world of ice. In this cabin, sucking this woman dry, I am at home.
    “What is your name?” The woman asks me after two weeks. I feel warmed by this sentiment, but my name gets lost here. I try desperately to remember, hoping to repay her with something, a token, a simple word, but it’s gone. I look into her warm eyes.
    “I am the demon of temptation,” I reply, the only answer I know escaping my lips. This is the only escape I find here. She looks at me and I am scared. I fear that she will leave, leave me to die in this endless winter. I bite my lip, tasting blood. I want so badly for her to stay. She smiles down at me and I can feel a certain stirring in my heart.
    “I know, but now you’re home,” She whispers, and I can finally lay to rest.