Her cold, pale hand extended out to me, eager for my touch. Reminiscent of an ice sculpture, it was beautiful and flawless. I longed to yield to its invitation and my loneliness did not aid in the strength of my resistance. I knew better. What had once been the pleasantly false façade of a warm, gentle grasp, now painted a picture of the woman underneath. Though still beautiful, her heart had become fragile and cold. Her lips, once soft, tender and full of love now hid sharp, poisonous fangs. In this way, her appearance still did lie, but for all the wrong reasons. Her touch had become bitingly cold, this I had experienced first hand. I looked down upon my faded scars, no longer open yet still tearing apart my insides. The cold still pumped through my veins, chilling me to my very core. Suddenly, it started to dawn on me. These wounds appeared self-inflicted. Was this all my fault? Had I been the one to create this frozen sea of bitter melancholy? Had I become so cold myself, so embroidered in a repugnant coat of ice that I could no longer weep? Crying had been, unfortunately, impossible. The tears solidified upon creation, covering my eyes in their icy treachery. A frosty storm was to cloud them, and in addition, my existence. She was not the sculpture of ice, no, that description fit me alone. Her warm, pale hand extended out to me, eager to touch me. She wished nothing other than to break down my fortress of ice, my freezing bastion, the only thing defending me from my self loathing and pity. I tried to run, but it was of no use. As I exhaled, a cloud of air visibly expelled itself from my lungs. My insides warmed, my heart thumped, my veins pulsed and as I lie curled on the floor, I wept. Alone but present. Warm and yet dead.
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