Surviving Sam [ONGOING]

║introduction / prolouge║

"Let us love winter, for it is the spring of genius."
—Pietro Aretino

Dedication: This dedication is for binarosie , a girl who's been nothing but supportive of all my books. I wouldn't have been able to do any of this without her, I love her dearly.

•••

PEOPLE SAY A first snow is like a first love.

A first snow is usually beautiful in all it's simplicity. Snowflakes from different origins with unique shapes and geometric designs fall from the heavens. One may touch your nose and melt at the warmth. It's all a winter wonderland, blankets of white happiness covering every single crevice of land the eye can see.

Some may describe it like that, yes.

However, others may argue that a first snow is cold, windy, and brutal. The snow hits your rosy cheeks as if it were a whip. Your lungs tighten at the freezing air, and your fingers become numb and emotionless. Snow encases you, and there is no way not to have some stuck in your boot, or your mittens, or your hair.

You just might wonder, how can something so ugly turn into something so beautiful?

•••

A young girl, no more than 17, sits at the windowsill of her dark room. She's wearing a large, knit maroon sweater with jeans and two pairs of socks on her feet. Her short, cropped, dark hair brushes the surface of her shoulders.

She's holding a ceramic cup of earl grey tea in her hands, soaking up the warmth it provides and watching as the steam it emits fog up her window. She slowly sips out of the cup, careful not to burn her tongue, and watches the bright sky spit tiny, white specks onto the ground.

She watches out of amazement and wonder, not out of haste.

New York always had brutal winters, she thought. Her mind wandered to what it would be like, a winter in New York without snow—something so gray and dull and drag.

At least snow was white, pure and innocent. She filled with dread at the thought if snow was any other ominous color. Why did something so wonderful have to be so cold, she wondered.

She took another drink out of her tea cautiously, savoring it. She curled her toes in her socks as the warmth of the liquid spread from her throat to her chest, and then to the rest of her body.

Winter, out of all the seasons, happened to be her favorite. Everyone else liked summer, where there were beaches and fun in the sun; or fall, where there was pumpkin spice and apple picking and thanksgiving.

She didn't even like winter because of Christmas.

People called her odd for her love of snow. Some, however, just thought it was crazy since snow was cold, and merciless, and hard to manage.

Nah, she thought, snow wasn't just that. Snow was something else entirely. A feeling. A memory. A friend.

A love.

Rosie thought she sounded weird saying those kinds of things. Nobody understood her reasoning. But in her head, she just felt right.

She finished her tea, perched by the windowsill, a burning sensation finally reaching her tongue.

•••

A young boy, no more than 18, lit a cheap cigarette as he leaned up against the brick wall of an old record store. Abandoned or not, he didn't care if he was smoking on private property.

His black hair fluttered against his forehead from a gust of bitter wind. He scowled and pulled his winter cap over his head further, covering his frozen ears. The apples of his cheeks became tinged with pink, and so did his nose.

Snow and winter weren't in his best interest, so to speak.

He didn't give a care about anyone or anything, nevermind some stupid snowflakes that fell from the sky once in a while. He felt as if they were a nuisance, and that they were insignificant to the world.

He didn't know why he even stayed in New York. He wanted to get away from his parents, yes, but where else could he go? He didn't have friends. Nobody he could go to for advice or to seek help from. People at his school always called him a loner, but he didn't mind it one bit.

He was always the one to sit in the back of class, unnoticed. He didn't talk to anyone, but for the ones who did—didn't end up successful.

He didn't like people. He didn't like his parents. He didn't like school, and he definitely did not like snow.

He puffed a large amount of smoke out of his nostrils, feeling warmth spread throughout his body.

Whereas people like Rosie would warm up to a cup of tea, he warmed up to a cigarette. He knew it was a bad habit, yet he still decided to smoke anyway. I mean, why did it matter having something slowly killing you inside if everyone is going to die anyways?

Quite the pessimist, he was.

Tugging his black jacket closer to his body, he threw the cigarette onto the ground and stomped on it, watching it crumble to ashes onto the pavement and creating a pile of dark shadows contrasted against the white snow.

Sam grimaced at it's purity, and didn't feel like bothering to look up at the illuminated sky when the first snowflake fell and drifted onto the bridge of his nose.

•••

i hope you enjoyed this. please leave a comment, like, or vote:)

this is a new story. sorry if it's boring or trash.

love,