Frigid Friends

The brutal frigid air bit at my exposed skin. My cracked frozen hands gripped the oars harder. I grimace at the pain as fresh warm blood oozes from between my fingers. It makes the act of rowing a slippery ordeal, but at least the pain is a reminder that I am still alive. The unsympathetic and glacial wind yowled it’s hunger like that of a banshee- or my wife. It bit into my flesh, tearing with its teeth at my warmth. If I wasn’t careful, I would lose a finger or two to this unforgiving environment. Last winter, in fact I had lost a finger. Horst, my fishing companion, had to take the damned thing himself.

Speaking of Horst, he slows his rowing in front of me and our small boat drags through the water at a pitiful speed. We were trying to beat the storm coming and are in the process of bringing our fish catch back across the icy lake. We don't want to be caught out on the water when this blizzard hits. “Horst, why did you stop? Ya lout!” I have to shout pretty good for him to hear over this blasted wind. I stop my rowing to grab him. That’s when I can see he was slumped over and is ice cold. “ Ah, blast it to hell.” I mumble. The poor bastard froze to death.

He is dead weight, I think to myself and then chuckle humorlessly at my poor joke. I sigh at my friend, before tossing him unceremoniously overboard. He is so full of frozen ice, that immediately he sinks below the black waters. I don't like what I did, but here in this place, being sentimental will get ya killed. To bring my friend back would take too long, his weight too much for me to row back fast enough before this storm caught us. I grunt at the ugliness of it and the misfortune. I pick up my oars and continue onward. Thoughts of warmth keep my going and by the time I can see the shore, I am not as miserable. My wife will surely be happy to see I’ve brought twice the fish I normally do.