Writing for the short story contest (Frosted Windows)

Snow poured into my boots as I ran to his car. Oh Matthew, Matthew, my savior has come! His car was blue but looked white, a foot of snow all around. I saw him shivering through the window, his blond hair icy, his lips slightly purple. That’s how everyone looked then. His bloodshot, pale blue eyes were surprised by me.

I slammed against the door. My face peering in manically happy. I saw his tongue moving, searching for something to say. I couldn’t hear him, but I knew he was stuttering. He couldn’t stop me from wrenching open the door and sliding inside.

“Matt!” I was screaming, deliriously happy, “I missed you!” I hugged him, almost strangled him, almost climbed into his lap. My eyes were large with euphoria. His, large with fear.

“Uh, uh, Melissa, well, um,” he mumbled along.

“It’s alright, you don’t have to say anything,” I whispered loudly, and grabbed his neck, pulling his face toward my puckered lips.

“Wait,” he managed before I rammed my lips to his. He tried to pull away, but I smashed my face even deeper into his, my tongue prying his open. He relented for a second, my mouth awkwardly kissing his with slobbery passion, but he took advantage of my contentment to pull away.

“Oh my God,” he looked slightly disgusted, mostly shocked, “What the hell was that all about?”

I shifted in my seat. “What do you mean?” I muttered, looking down. I was pouting. He got angry.

“Melissa,” he calmed down, “Lissy, you know we broke up over two months ago.” He put his hand on my knee.

“So?” I snapped, very childish. His palm rubbed circles over my knee.

“Lissy,” he demanded comprehension. I rolled my eyes. Tears were forming. “You know I only came to help you through this.” Tears ran down my cheeks.

“I don’t need help!” I yelled. My voice quavered with sobs. He looked frustrated but sympathetic.

“Just stop it,” he spoke sharply, “You’re the one who asked me for help.”

My eyes were slits of anger. He was used to it. His palm pressed harder on my knee, almost painfully. He turned to the window, even though it was frosted over, to avoid my stare.

“Fine, then I’ll go,” almost escaped my lips, but I quickly stopped myself. If I said that, I would have to do as I threatened and leave. It was not going to be over that easy.

I could see the little hairs on the back of his neck standing up. He had goose bumps. His car’s heater was broken. He sighed at the window, foggy breath clouding over the glass. I knew what was coming.

“Listen, I don’t want to fight with you. I’m here to try to make you feel better, not worse. No more talk of what we were or are or whatever. That’s over. Now is a time to heal, not open old wounds,” his voice was stale and rehearsed. He was so anal.

“But,” my lips were helplessly pulled into a frown, my desperate attempt at maintaining composure, “I don’t want to heal. I want it to be how it was before,” he nodded compassionately, “”You know, before we broke up.”

The world broke into silence. His eyes flickered like old light bulbs as realization spread through him. Angrily, neutrally, he spoke slowly and harsh, “You were talking about us? You are heartbroken over this useless relationship?” His face grew red with fury, “ I came to help you with your loss, and you care more about our dead relationship than your dead mother!” Hot spit spattered my face as he spoke. I cowered under his explosive words. Discreetly, I wiped the spit away.

“You don’t understand,” my voice was barely a whisper, “ My mother is dead, and that is unfixable. We are fixable,” I brought his hand to my cheek, “I know the love can come back.” I smiled, hopeful. His anger faded into despair. His eyes gazed blankly through me. His breath rattled in his cold-stricken lungs and steamed out from his lips steadily. I thought he looked beautiful.

“Oh,” he began, but could not finish. His eyes closed thoughtfully. I leaned toward him, to kiss him, but his hand shot up and stopped me, palm to my breastbone. I pushed harder, forcing myself closer, but his hand stopped me with equal force. My eyes darkened and my smile wilted. A silent sob formed in the back of my throat.

“Matthew, Matthew,” I pleaded, “No, Matthew, no, please, no!” I cried. I shrieked. His hand kept still to my chest. My hands became fists. I struggled against his strength, but he pushed me back. My spine hit the door handle, and I groaned. He turned back toward the window.

My fist hit hard into his cheek. I heard a crack. Suddenly, I was flailing, thrashing, my arms, my legs, into his soft flesh. And then it was over. My knuckles were bloody. It was his blood. I had hit him in the nose. Matthew was staring at me.

He didn’t look angry. I was crying again. “Now you’ll never love me!” I screamed at him. He was whimpering. I slammed my hands down on my knees. It would bruise. I sank into myself. “Matthew?” I asked. I was scared.

He nodded. “I forgive you,” he murmured. His palm patted my knee lovingly. Then he turned back to the window.

“You were all I had left,” I whispered. He nodded and stroked my knee. “You were all I had left. You were all I had left. You were all I had left.” I repeated my serenity prayer. He turned to me once more and softly kissed my cheek, dried blood specks marking me. Then he turned away.

I opened the door, let the cold air in. It was snowing again.

“Good luck,” he mumbled to the window. I nodded. “I love you,” I told him. He nodded. Gently, I closed the door behind me, and walked out into the snow. I turned back once, to see his car one last time, but the snow blinded me. I didn’t cry. I went home to change for my mother’s funeral.