The Dampwoods, 27th November. I suck at life.
The sun was setting, and it was snowing. He sat on the stone steps of the cottage with a ragged blanket over his shoulders and an empty gaze. He could hear the snow somehow, each flake that fell past his face and onto the ground -- each flake that landed on his head instead, the blanket, his arms, his feet. His mind was white, but not empty. It was snowing there too, a different snow, a fake snow. A half-torn memory he had almost convinced himself had never happened. He closed his eyes and thought about something else, anything else. Death. There was a whispering in the back of his head and in between his ears. The voice was familiar, but the voice was too low to understand. (You just don't want to listen to it.) He exhaled and felt the ice on his breath.
Time passed and it got cooler. His mind ran in circles because it had nothing else to do, and he counted seconds until he was sure he didn't know any more numbers. There were conversations in his head -- memories, half-fantasies, things he had dreamt about and not remembered. He counted. They talked. The snow fell. He wanted for when it would be too cold for him to move anymore. He was sure it was a beautiful night.