He loathed the wintertime. Utterly despised it.
Walking steadily down the street, he breathed softly. Small puffs of whitened air wafted before him before slowly catching away in the gentle breeze, vanishing from sight in seconds. It was frigid that night. A fresh, clean patch of snow blanketing the world around him.
It angered him.
Gritting his teeth, he closed his eyes, head bare, hair whipping lightly about him as the wind nipped unmercifully at his ears. It wasn't the cold that got him. It's what he couldn't hear...
Silence.
Midnight was his favorite time to venture the world. All was usually still and at peace, but not in the winter. Not the time of merriment and cheer.
That was but a lie. He knew this. He saw this. He lived this..
His venturing steps soon stopped at the edge of his neighborhood, the street lamp shining a nostalgic orange glow. Violet eyes peeking open, the wind stung, biting at his teary eyes, his lashes sticking and freezing. He rubbed them, growing more and more frustrated.
This was only the beginning.
What was it of the winter that drove him mad? The snow? The kodak-moment cheer? The cold? It was all of these and none of these at once.
It was the silence... The aching, chilling silence.
Scanning his gaze from side to side, he stared vacantly at the unmarked street, the silent, darkened houses, the undisturbed yards that will soon be filled with the joyous cry of younger kids who get to experience the time of day to build snowmen or whatever it was children did.
He never did. Nor did most other teenagers his age.
It was the same dreary scene, the same aching silence, the same bleak, blank whiteness over and over and over and over, every day, every moment, every chance he would take to look out the window.
The cold kept him in. The brightness assaulted his eyes. The wetness repelled him.
Trapped inside. Nothing to do. Losing your mind. Cabin fever sinking in.
Reality....
Is...
Taking..
Over.
Walking steadily down the street, he breathed softly. Small puffs of whitened air wafted before him before slowly catching away in the gentle breeze, vanishing from sight in seconds. It was frigid that night. A fresh, clean patch of snow blanketing the world around him.
It angered him.
Gritting his teeth, he closed his eyes, head bare, hair whipping lightly about him as the wind nipped unmercifully at his ears. It wasn't the cold that got him. It's what he couldn't hear...
Silence.
Midnight was his favorite time to venture the world. All was usually still and at peace, but not in the winter. Not the time of merriment and cheer.
That was but a lie. He knew this. He saw this. He lived this..
His venturing steps soon stopped at the edge of his neighborhood, the street lamp shining a nostalgic orange glow. Violet eyes peeking open, the wind stung, biting at his teary eyes, his lashes sticking and freezing. He rubbed them, growing more and more frustrated.
This was only the beginning.
What was it of the winter that drove him mad? The snow? The kodak-moment cheer? The cold? It was all of these and none of these at once.
It was the silence... The aching, chilling silence.
Scanning his gaze from side to side, he stared vacantly at the unmarked street, the silent, darkened houses, the undisturbed yards that will soon be filled with the joyous cry of younger kids who get to experience the time of day to build snowmen or whatever it was children did.
He never did. Nor did most other teenagers his age.
It was the same dreary scene, the same aching silence, the same bleak, blank whiteness over and over and over and over, every day, every moment, every chance he would take to look out the window.
The cold kept him in. The brightness assaulted his eyes. The wetness repelled him.
Trapped inside. Nothing to do. Losing your mind. Cabin fever sinking in.
Reality....
Is...
Taking..
Over.
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