By Ryan Butterly
Curiously, I lifted my finger to the freshly frosted window pane and began drawing. It was only when I finished did I notice what exactly I had drawn, a bird. I brushed off the flakes of frost which had stuck against the cracks in my ever so pale skin. Turning away from the window in dismay I walked away from it, the chafing of my legs against the brown sack I had fashioned to stay warm becoming excruciatingly painful. My bare blue feet crunched along the snow and followed the trail to the beach.
I arrived at the beach, watching the ocean as it lulled the frosty sand with it, washing away the scrawling’s of passers-by. My body trembled as i walked, I could no longer feel the frost exposed flesh. Stones and seaweed littered the beach along with empty bottles and blackened sticks surrounding ash, the remnants of a bonfire.
I had no idea where I could go, whether there was any point in going back to the orphanage. I decided against it. There was no one around here for miles; surely no one would notice me having a nap as most children often do. I found a spot and lay down in the frost covered sand. It sent chills up my spine as I lay there numb unfeeling.
I gazed at the stars; they made patterns I didn’t understand because no one understood. How can we understand glowing orbs of dying light? My eyelids fluttered, so I stopped wondering what unimaginable weavings the sky was keeping from me as they closed one last time. My breathing stopped. I felt nothing. I drifted away to the clouds, away from this world. Away from all the pain I once knew. Finally, I am dead, no, I am… Free.