Hypothermia

0.

Witching hour

The run-down street is bathed in shadow, the only source of illumination being the speckles of starlight and a single dim, flickering street lamp. It is here in which she came to be—there's not a single soul out on the streets, then in an instant, she appears.

She feels odd. Her appearance had shifted, appearing as though she was looking at her hands through thick, blurred lenses. Her limbs are abnormally light and feel off, and as she stands up from the dirty sidewalk, not a single speck of dust clings to her unnaturally white clothes. In place of the night's regular cacophony there is only silence; what she assumes to be biting winter winds are but the breeze's soothing caress. But even that could not compare to the frozen sense of wrongness in her chest, a cutting pain which hurt oh so badly, accompanied by an all-consuming numbness. Gasping for breath, she reached out toward the lamppost for support and just...fell...through...

Panic began to invade, flooding her mind with What? Why? What is going on? This isn't normal, I should be – (where?) – safe with him and, and, away from the white walls that kept closing in – (what?) – with people calling, calling – (who?)

.

.

.

Oh, I don't think I know anymore, do I.

With a slow fade, the light died.

1.

Nautical twilight.

Once again, she finds herself in the streets, before most of the city is even awake. The dawning sun slowly lightens up the sky as she aimlessly wanders, going everywhere but nowhere at once. It's lonely, the life she now lives, seeing everything pass by yet unable to interact. An outsider.

Though the piercing in her chest eventually becomes manageable, dulled down over time, it does nothing to prevent the ache of loneliness that festers. She had tried before, over and over again, to get someone's attention—just for someone to look and see her. It never works. No matter what she does, or who she follows, trying to interact, it always fails.

Eventually, she resigns herself, turning away from the hustling populous of the day to the night, wallowing in pity. Then, at least she can pretend that it was out of choice, that her loneliness can be fixed. (Lying to herself never really worked)

A door slams, catching her off guard. There usually aren't any sounds loud enough for her to hear, considering her 'waking' hours. A group of young men, each with a distinct hair color, slowly exit the car, urged on by one of their own. He's the only one who looks fully conscious in the group, surprisingly animated for someone awake at this hour, exaggerated gestures and a voice which she can barely make out. Their camaraderie is evident in their posture, and suddenly she is hit with a wave of envy, desire, and need.

She approaches as they enter a nearby building, closing the door behind them, and, just, one last time, I promise.

She enters.

(It felt as if she is submerged, half – drowned in ice water)

2.

Daybreak

There is just something about them that urges her to return. And she does, again and again.

This time, early in the morning, they arrive at the desolate field —light blocked by a blanket of fog. The still silence is filled with chatter from the crew as preparations commence; the young men, the idols, are also getting ready. Heedless of the early hour and dismal weather, everyone is on task, doing their job.