Dead of Winter
Copyright 1998 Ginger Johnson
All Rights Reserved

The dead of winter stole into the night. Blanketing all with oppression, offering no refuge.

I wander the bleak and barren land, joyless, mournful. The horizon looms far out of reach. My body is weary, my thinking blurred. Tired, exhausted, my trip never seems to end.

Calling out for help, the sound only bounces back to me, the echo hollow. No answer in the distance. No one appears at my side to assure me things will be right. None emerges to guide me home.

I've entered a no man's land. A desolate place where hope is extinguished like a flame on a candle. Slowly starved, it flickers and dies a silent death.

I search for warmth, the memory dimming. Tears slide down my flushed cheeks, stealing the last of the heat from the skin. I take a long swallow of smooth scotch and welcome the raw burning it creates in stomach devoid of nourishment. A gift of feeling in a lifeless existence.

Light reflects off the shards scattered about me. I recognize my heart shattered. Slivers shining, too splintered to be repaired. The rhythm of love gone. Ripped from its resting place, it will care no more.

My eyes drop to the silvery blade.