You're running late. You were supposed to have left eight minutes ago, and now you're going to be late. It's icy outside and the roads aren't particularly forgiving this time of year. But the snow was plowed and the pavement salted. It'll be fine if you speed a little. Slow isn't going to cut it today.
s**t, s**t, s**t, you think. It's cold. The car's covered in a thick skin of frost, barring you from even opening the frozen-shut doors. Windows are now sheets of ice. No time to scrape them. You're ten minutes late.
[******** s**t.
The handle's in your stinging grasp. It snapped off.
You can fix it later. You manage to crack the opposite door open, and crawl through to the frozen driver's wheel. The keys are in the ignition, but the car won't start. It whines and groans, slowly waking from its icy slumber. It doesn't want to leave. It would rather sleep all day on the curb, bygone and brittle and broken.
But it reluctantly gives in to your demands. You blindly shoot down the street, relying solely on the glowing spots of yellow and red and green as your guide to the asphalt world.
Fifteen minutes late now. You can feel your foot slipping on the gas pedal every now and then. A thick slab of ice clings to it. Faster. Need to go faster. You feel yourself lurch a bit as you swiftly avoid a head on collision. You need something to calm your nerves. You click on the radio. The voices, though a bit ridiculous, are relaxing.
The radio personalities chatter about dead birds and the recent assassination of a highly esteemed government official. The female voice is boisterous, cocky and confident. The male voice: shrill, giggly, and feminine. He can't take anything seriously. He giggles and cracks jokes about the dead birds. The female voice snaps at him, but soon joins in with the jokes. They're both giggling like mad, giggling like drunk frat boys on helium. Their voices get higher, higher, so unnaturally high until you click the radio off. But the squealing is still there, the shrill sound of screaming, you realize.
Why isn't the heater working? You know you turned it on several minutes ago. It's getting so cold. The screaming won't stop. Why is it so cold?
But that doesn't matter anymore. The cold feels like a blanket, beckoning you to sleep. Oh, you feel so sleepy. Everything is so azure and crystalline. Like sugar. Your mind takes you to a beautifully warm candy store. Jars on the front table display an assortment of rock candy, almost too pretty to eat. In your idyllic doze, you travel all over the world, sporadic thoughts bounce you from drinking hot chocolate to hiding under linen sheets with the cat. But now you've run out of thoughts, and thoughts you no longer have.
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