September 2011 — Soul of a Victorian

Maribelle doesn’t bother with furs or high-collared jackets that are so puffy they look like cream-filled desserts. Not anymore. Instead she goes about this naturally, letting the frigid air slice across her once tender flesh, finding every nook and cranny to penetrate and call its own. It’s okay, she thinks, my body isn’t my own. And at least the cold air doesn’t talk to her while it buries its breath in between her breasts. At least she doesn’t have to take its jabbing fingers personally.

When she steps outside, she looks up at the sun that should spread warmth along her skin, but it doesn’t. It’s gold rays light the earth, but do not reach her pale body or the ice cave, letting her rejoice in the numbness of her ligaments and not worry about the deep down warmth of life and human bodies and other things she can’t be bothered with anymore.

She feels the familiar rumblings of being watched dance across her stomach and she panics for a moment. This is where it went wrong before. Last time she ran and ended up face down in the snow, nearly suffocating as its density filled her mouth. The one part of her that’s warm turned numb for a few seconds. It scared her. Had her mouth frozen completely, she was certain she’d turn into a thousand ice shards and crumble into the dense snow. But eventually warmth crept back into the blood vessels that lined her palate and tongue. Mine, she thought and smiled.

In the distance of dense white hills and floating chunks of ice she sees a large beast approaching.

Somewhere in the back of her mind she recognizes it from before. Only this time, it is a mountain of a monster with long white hair instead of fur and horns and jagged teeth stained with blood instead of claws. Or maybe it wears a long white jacket smeared with grease with breath that stinks of whiskey.

She steels herself against its oncoming attack. It will have her on her terms. She calls it over, letting her breasts bounce freely from side to side, and names it as it approaches. Yeti. Yes, he looks like a Yeti this time, she thinks and waves some more.

It notices her, stands on its back legs and lets out a roar. Then it starts running, collapsing onto all fours.

Maribelle stands in place, legs slightly spread, icicles hanging from her nose and ears and waits for the creature to come.

She resolves to fight it with her bare hands, because that’s how it had to happen. She will kick and scream and bite at its ears and rip its hair out until it stops mauling her. Last time, she would have done these things but she was face down, so the monster didn’t stop until it had enough, until it had filled its belly with the very smell of her to the point of bursting.

But this isn’t last time. With her skin puckered with painful gooseflesh, she stands taller. She will wait.

When it knocks her to the ground she doesn’t feel it. Its paws envelop her hands, pinning her to the frozen snow. She starts to sink in a little and wonders what sort of horrifying snow angel will be left behind once he’s done.

Large corrosive teeth tear at her flesh. She tries to kick and scream, but her arms and legs are filled with the weight of the dead. She lays there, tears freezing onto her cheeks before they can roll down to puncture the ice. The Yeti breathes on her neck. Whiskey. It drags a gnarled tooth along her cheek, so close to catching the corner of her mouth. Wrong, she thinks and tries not to look it in the eye. She squeezes her eyes shut and knows it’s gone wrong again.

When Maribelle wakes, the sea urchins wriggle in the walls of the cave trying to set their spikes free. The bees drop from mid-air to the frozen earth before dusting off their wings and taking flight once again. Water droplets ping her forehead. The sunlight has reached her.

She steps outside and lets the sun warm her for just a moment. It feels better than she cares to admit, but she knows it is not for her. Maybe one day it will be, but not today.

So Maribelle treks further north where the snow is so cold its blue and this time when the giant monster that breaths liquid fire presses its fangs to her face and gets dangerously close to the place he never kissed, she will be ready with a knife to plunge into his gut. This time, she will get it right.

8 Responses to “Maribelle Remembers Ice”