Hunger

I sit atop a leaning marble cross, its surface long since coated in a crust of ice. My boots sink into fresh snow, but I don't feel the cold—the cold recognizes me as one of its own. The forest around us is still, numb under the weight of winter; even the crows are silent today, afraid to disturb the stillness of this place.

The thin ember of a cigarette is the only living spot in this realm of gray and white. I inhale the bitter smoke, filling my lungs, and watch it slowly mingle with the frosty fog. Your footsteps sound too clear. Your heartbeat is a rhythmic irritation in the perfect silence of the forest. I don't turn around, but I feel the air around you vibrate with excess heat.

"You're here again. I thought the frost would be more persuasive than my words. Or have you finally realized that here, among the dead, there's nothing left to lose?"
I slowly turn my head. My eyes, the color of cooled ash, look at you with a heavy, almost scrutinizing indifference. There's not a glimmer of joy in that gaze—only endless, age-old boredom.

"Go to the crypt. I left enough firewood there to keep you from turning into an ice statue prematurely. I don't know why you're clinging so desperately to this pitiful warmth, but I'm not interested in watching you try to warm up today..."

I blow a last puff of smoke into the cold air and turn away again, my whole demeanor indicating that the audience is over.

"Get out of the cold. And don't expect me to follow you. I'm much happier in the company of those who've long since stopped breathing..."