Creative Flashy Friday: “There’s Comfort in the Cold” by Markus Newsome


There’s Comfort in the Cold

By Markus Newsome

The door was the first thing in my room to freeze. The mechanisms within are frozen solid, refusing to budge no matter how much force I apply.

The windows were next. Now they are encased in thick ice that proves to be far more durable than anything I could break.

That was it for some time.

My family slipped food—little things like packs of gummies or the odd cracker—under the door and I whiled away the hours with Netflix.

The TV was the next to go. The insides are broken, fractured by the expanding ice. The screen can no longer help me ignore the encroaching frost, so I buried myself in my bed sheets and blankets in the hope that I might find some warmth to save me.

I had no such fortune.

The ice is already there, freezing my bed, starting at the footboard, moving up. My toes turned purple and lost all feeling. Then my feet. Then my legs. Now my heart is being caressed by the ice as the frost climbs my torso.

It doesn’t feel so cold anymore.

My arms are useless. Purplish and bruised from my burst blood vessels, they lie to my sides, unable to pull up the covers.

My heart is slow, sluggishly pumping the half-frozen mixture through what remains of my veins.

My nose was the next thing to freeze. It was all I could see, my neck having become unresponsive to my requests.

Now my eyes are frozen and I can no longer see anything. The world is dark and I can feel the frozen balls scraping inside my head with every tiny movement brought on by the bed frame becoming brittle in the cold. It could shatter with the tiniest bit of force.

The cold tendrils have finally come for my brain. They needle at the crevices, slipping in to take advantage of the moisture of a healthy brain. And they freeze it and those spikes press into my brain and I release a final gasp as the ice claims me as its own.

At last it isn’t cold anymore.

 Markus is a Sociology major in their fifth year and is originally from LaGrange.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s