Decrescendo

I'm wearing the hand-me-down leggings of a girl who got cancer and lived. Fraying and soaked at the kneecaps. I crouch by snow-sunken tires - pawing our car deeper into the hillside with ungloved hands. Futile, numb effort.

Carter hasn't stopped screaming at me since I lost control of our sedan in the squall. It’s supposed to turn into freezing rain overnight. Soon, that is.

The sun is setting, and his rage hangs gelid in the air between us. On ice. I chew at my purple fingertips. Adrenaline buzz. We say the worst to each other. Insults that will thaw by spring so we can separate for good (this time). Pack our bags to bird chatter.

I stomp off across the field with balled fists, soon passing the lone watchful tree. A pilgrimage checkpoint. Reverential.

“Nia!” he yells, spitting his gum into the snow like a meteor. Anger without echo.

My teeth chatter, imploring me to turn back.

I picture Carter finding me hypothermic. Face up on this barren, frozen planet. My hometown. I see him plucking my icicle eyelashes one by one and dropping them to the cold earth. Hot breath on my forehead. Rising like Lazarus.

I'm almost at the chapel now. Across the clearing. Half-a-mile. To the right. A relic of my youth. Every remote town has an abandoned attraction, adorned with morbid curiosity.

Graffiti: ORGAN. Beg me. Entombed. The End

I open the door weakly, inclined to collapse at the altar and weep like I’m fourteen.