The night is cold.
Cold in the sense that I cannot feel my wind-eaten fingers; cold in the sense that I am left wondering how my heart has enough heat to keep beating.
Don’t get me wrong; I am very familiar with frosty nights. I tell myself that I was born with cold in my bones—what Mother calls “bird bones”. She tells me that my bones are fragile and too breakable for their own good while running a brush through my hair. I suppose that I, all around, am fragile—constantly needing protection from the dangers of the outside world. Dangers such as the cold, perhaps.
Tonight, I embrace the ice instead of fearing it. The cold has turned into a snowy goddess who wraps her frozen, inhuman arms around my warm, beating body. It is searching for something within, something that I cannot give; I do not have anything left to give. Despite that, through her insatiable quest, she has foolishly placed something inside me to sustain her hunger: two cold, lifeless eyes. That is what I tell myself to make up for my lack of sight. A pity story for a pitiful girl.
The wind dies down before starting up again. I can hear the trees mutter a little. I imagine that they are laughing at me, a poor soul at the train station whose been here long enough to feel the sun say “goodnight, goodnight.” The moon replaces her, but he is far too rigid to do any good. There is no warmth in his smile.
That’s alright. The night makes up for the lack of sunshine. Usually, I pretend that the stars give warmth, as they are all suns from faraway places. I would typically talk to them, muttering my secrets to my suns in the form of wishes—a routinely futile prayer.
Tonight, I cannot feel that warmth. I am confident that the clouds are covering them, following the ice goddess’ selfish demands.
I suppose, in that sense, we are similar. She and I are inevitably the same, desiring something just outside our reach. I like to think of us as rivals—sabotaging each other to see who will reach the finish line first, wherever that line may be.
The air tastes sweet like jasmine. I relish in a breath before letting it go. Everything is cold: the bench, the air, the wind that fills my empty ribcage with dried leaves and winter whispers. It is the type of cold that burns all except for my warm, beating heart. Still, there is a coldness inside of me, desperate to be warm; the residues the ice goddess left behind when she crept inside of me.
The swoosh of an incoming train drives me to stand. I take a step forward, carefully feeling the ground for the rigged texture that tells me to stop. There is nothing but concrete. I take another step, clutching the bag in my hand. Still, the texture does not come. I take one more as the train in front of me approaches.
The train is loud and groans in displeasure when its wheels screech in pain at its stopping. The wind increases, whipping my hair around. The mutter of trees disappears as the air is filled with a blaring horn. My feet still cannot feel the texture. I must be further away than I thought.
I take another step. The wind increases more. I can sense the slight light difference coming from my left side. The rugged texture is at the tips of my shoes. I take one more step—a small one—just to breathe in the stench of diesel and jasmine mixed with the rushing wind. I pretend I am flying, just for a moment.
Just for a breath.
I know that tonight is as free as I can get.
“Woah there!” A voice strikes the air. “Step back!” A hand reaches for my right arm and pulls me toward the voice. I feel the world turning and falling for a bit, as I lose my footing.
“Are you insane?” It’s a female voice to my right side. Clear and raspy, like warm coffee during early winter mornings. Their hand is warm; I can feel it through my fall coat. Their other hand is on my back, supporting my balance. The train rushes by as we stay in a state of limbo. A realization dawns on me; the train was never going to stop at this platform. I almost walked off in an attempt to feel alive. The last of the train leaves, taking its thump thump thump along with it.
“Sorry,” I mutter as I try and collect myself. A couple of steps back, a brush of my coat. I turn to face their voice. “Thank you.”
“Don’t sweat it,” They reply, now to my left. I turn my head around at the sound of their voice. “What are you doing out here? The last train already left.” They don’t question what I was trying to do. I appreciate the gesture.
“Oh.” The mutter of the trees returns, filling in the silence I left.
“Nothing stops at this station. I mean, trains do stop here, but not frequently. Not past 1 am.” They walk around, their footsteps and warm voice bouncing off the cold concrete. “The next train isn’t coming until 6. In the morning.”
Their voice softens slightly. “Where are you trying to go?”
I shake my head. “I don’t exactly know.” I clutch my bag and pretend I am holding onto the last of my sanity, using it as an anchor to keep me from floating. “Anywhere that isn’t here, I reckon.”
“That’s a very bold description.” There is yellow in that sentence, a smile creeping in. “Anywhere is a big place.”
The wind picks up, swirling the fallen leaves, letting them dance on the floor. They’re wearing tap shoes, clicking and clacking their way around. I enjoy their musical performance as I rack my mind for a response.
“It’s a small town,” I can feel their gaze on me. “I wanted to get out.”
“Small town?” They giggle a little, and the wind laughs back. “It’s fucking Scarborough, honey. This is the biggest town around.” Another giggle. “In fact, it’s not even a town. It’s a whole city.”
“City?” My blood rushes to my cheeks as I realized my misunderstanding. “My mother told me we lived in a small place.”
“Scarborough? Small? Compared to Beijing, sure.” They’re laughing at me. I can feel it. There is humour in that tone. “But small compared to the rest of Canada?” A snort. “You gotta be kidding me.”
The world pauses to look at me. Neither of us replies, letting silence fill the air again.
“That’s alright,” They pat my right shoulder, pat pat. I jolt a little. “I failed Grade 9 geography too.” Their voice is now behind me, and I turn around to face it again. “Did you know that we count Scotland as a part of Britain? Insane.” They drag that last word out as if the stars could hear them.
“Great Britain is composed of Scotland, England, and Wales.” I recite them the way Mother likes them. “And their associated islands.”
A pause fills the air again.
“You sound like Google when you say that.” Another pause. “Is… there something behind me? You keep looking around me.”
The famous question. I suck in a deep breath, a bit terrified of their response. “I’m–” The wind interrupts me. “I’m blind. I can’t see.”
“Like, not at all?”
“Yeah.”
“Should you be out here alone?” There is genuine concern in that voice. “Is that…safe?”
I really shouldn’t. I shouldn’t be out here, not without my cane or Mother. My bird bones are not supposed to be left alone for so long. I should be at home, in my nest, fiddling with the strings of my bedsheets while I listen to my house go to sleep. Safe and warm, protected from the world. My mind cries at the idea of returning home, already imagining Mother’s expression when she returns. She’ll wag her finger and lecture me, watching the way I fold into myself when she talks. I’ll never get this chance again. I intend to make the most of it.
The ice goddess laughs at my helpless state, thunder cracking up the sky.
“Is it going to storm?” They grab me by the right arm. “Let’s get out of here before it starts raining.” My feet, unfamiliar with this speed, tumble along with theirs. They’re considerate of the steps and doors, reminding me about them as we move along. The run turns into a walk, but they stay slightly ahead of me. As we go, my fingers interlock with theirs, needing something to hold on to as I traverse this strange land. They don’t protest and return a reassuring squeeze once my hand settles in nicely. Their hand is warm and rough, yet gentle. My fingertips sit right between their knuckles, all cozy and snug. It’s a pleasant feeling, I think. It melts away the residues left behind.
“What’s your name, sweet girl?” They break the silence of our journey. Awkwardly, as if they expect me to reply first, they introduce themselves. “I’m Emery.”
“It’s Annalise.” They laugh a little as if I amuse them.
“Annalise,” Thunder breaks the sky. I jolt, and they give another squeeze. “Annalise, do you have anything to do tonight?”
“No. Not really.”
“Then, Annalise, let’s go find your anywhere.”
A smile finds itself on my face, half confusion and half enjoyment. The wind picks up harshly, and thunder booms again; it’s the ice goddess’ rage as she realizes she lost the race. She’s trying to make me feel cold, push me further back and freeze me whole, but such is in vain.
The clouds part and the stars shine, filling me with warmth.
I feel warm.