They didn’t mind living in a cold place. The mornings suited them almost too well. The shining frost flowers on the windows. The icicles dripping water in the sunlight and putting on a coat of white frost again in the evening. All this nourished their mind. They drew ice pearls on the windows.
They drank their morning coffee nearly too hot. A few times it had made them flinch, their brow furrowing, the air looking almost grainy. But it had strengthened the presence of the ice, strengthened the contrast. That was how they had learned to love it.
They called themself Julian, and that morning they had almost forgotten about it. The blanket was too rough, the air too stinging, their skin too much there. They wanted to stay in the sleep, turn away from it all, let their mind travel elsewhere. Their feet itched more than they had for a long while. They pressed their feet together, pulled their legs up, stayed small, just a little ball. Usually it helped, but not today.
They drew in a breath as slowly as they could. The air felt like it crackled in their lungs. Not as if there was something extra in there, but like they were too empty and too cramped, simultaneously. The air didn’t stream through them, it stayed a prisoner. They had to let it out themself. But they were forced to take the air in again and again.
Even the silence was too silent. Before, they had thought silence was stable, on-going, and calming and drifting. Only in this house, this air, had they understood that it could also be nothingness. That here, silence was hard and hollow, and that was exactly why it hurt more once broken. But outside, birds were singing. That voice they liked. They focused on that, and breathing deeper and heavier. It began to feel easier and brought a welcome hum in their ears.
Slowly, they began to stretch their fingers, toes, ankles and jaw. On difficult mornings they still did it too fast, with too much force or too little. It was aggravating to admit that they didn’t always know where the resistance was lesser and where it was stronger. Time and again their body seemed to get confused and remember little details the wrong way. It didn’t understand when the strange was the opposite of familiarity and so it was correct, or where the strange had already become familiar, and that’s why it no longer would have required attention. Today, they shouldn’t move too quickly. They would probably slip and break something.
They tried to remember their first morning in an air like this. How the frost had sung on their skin, how an earthful of stars had surrounded them. The sun had hit everything brighter than they had ever imagined. When it went down, the stars came out in the sky. They had almost thought it a mirror that reflected the earthly white sea of stars. Even the stars were so much sharper than they had ever understood.
It was that day that made them choose the cold. When they were in good spirits, they loved the frost. It made them feel more alive. Possibly nothing else on the shore could do it the way frost could. Only the long winter made them push through the summer. Through frost, they had learned to love the heat in their own way, the same way they loved hot coffee.
Soon their arms and legs had warmed up unpleasantly. They pushed the blanket away slowly and let the crisp air fall on their skin. It didn’t feel so unpleasant anymore, but refreshing, gentle, reviving. The traces of unease were better left as they were. That way they went away faster, you forgot their existence, or you grew used to them.
They waited, until they believed themself to be ready to get up. Sometimes their balance wavered. Whenever they could remember their dreams, it was clear those were the reason. This morning they didn’t remember, but they got up slowly anyway.
Everything was alright as they sat up on the edge of the bed. And everything was alright as they stood up. The world was real, brisk, bright, and they were a part of it. They didn’t feel themself a stranger.
In those times, they sometimes did what they had seen others do. Stretched their body, covered themself in a dressing gown, put their feet in slippers or thick socks. All of it felt incredibly silly. Today, they didn’t even think about doing it. They took off their light shirt to feel the cool air better, to feel something more even on their skin than the slack shirt. They took a step, and everything seemed to stay in its place.
The pressure was only a tingle in their feet. It had never been worse than that. They were able to enjoy every step while they walked from the bedroom to the corridor, and as they walked through it to the kitchen.
Moving didn’t really belong among the things they hated in this world. In the right state of mind, it was interesting, it had its own rules entirely. It was exciting to figure those out, although they didn’t want to take too big leaps. Focusing on the details suited them, there was enough to explore in small movements. That was why they had started to draw on the window in the first place. What was but one movement to others, was a series of countless small movements for them. As if what was a round, smooth ball for everyone else, had been a uniquely cut crystal for them.
This morning, they didn’t want coffee, or food, or even water. Especially not water. Sometimes, drinking it could feel like the most natural thing in the world, but other times they would have sooner drank blood. They didn’t know if water would have derailed things this particular morning, but they had, against their expectations, managed to reach a tranquil and lively state of peace. They didn’t want to break it.
They looked out the window, through the frost flowers, to their backyard. Looked through their own faint reflection. But then their eyes focused on it. Their brow, their eyelids and mouth froze, saying that what they saw was a burden. The peace was already broken.
It wasn’t the first time it had happened so easily. They did as they had each time the memories took over their mind, melting their senses. They went outside to freeze it all up again.
They stepped out the kitchen door, into the stinging cold. It attacked their skin, dived into their lungs, clung to their eyelashes. Soon their bare feet began to feel pain at each step. They focused on that as they stopped beside a small flower bed.
It was shaped like a mermaid, and instead of flowers, it was adorned with icicles. Their fingers slipped into the ends of their short hair. They were already covered in frost. Stubbornly short hair. They would never grow again.
The reason was partially covered in snow. It stood half beneath the ground, in the middle of the fins of the mermaid flower bed. They bent down to blow the snow off the frozen dagger, but then they stopped. They stood up without doing it.
The dagger was as dead as its creator. As dead as the one it had been supposed to kill. That had all been over a hundred years ago.
They crouched as if they were talking to the frozen flower bed.
– Look at me, sister, they said. – I am so much luckier than you. I’m so much better at this. Maybe you should have given up your hair instead of your voice, too.
After standing there for a while, the fifth sister took an icicle from the flower bed and stood up. They let it melt on their tongue and freeze their tastebuds while they went inside. Soon, they would be ready to walk the streets like a human. Luckily, the winters were the coldest right here.