Hell is a frozen forest

He hated the cold. It cut into his throat and eyes, gashed his lips and cheeks and hands with invisible cuts that grew hotter the longer he froze. The snow crackled threateningly underfoot as though he might sink down into it at any moment. His tennis shoes dipped in and out of the white stuff, bright red, every flash of their reappearance making him feel as though his feet were bleeding.

He felt dazed, odd and frostbitten as though the cold had rattled the brain and heart of him, fragmented something deep inside into frozen splinters, sent them spiraling and penetrating his core. He hurt somewhere, but he wasn’t convinced that it wasn’t merely the idea of hurt, an expectation of pain, a hope for it rather than actual, blistering hurt. Did he want to feel pain? He supposed not, but he found it strange that he didn’t.

The woods yawned in front of him. He wondered when and if they ended. Behind him the car continued to breathe smoke into the air. People had begun to gather and take pictures as sirens sounded. He walked on alone, bloodless and unbruised.

He wondered if there was a fire waiting on the other side of the forest, a respite from the deep cold that shivered inside of him and hurt the heart of him. But there was nothing to do except put one foot in front of the other and try to ignore the fact that they didn’t leave footprints behind.