Five Minutes Before Hot Chocolate

 A very very short story, or a beginning of a regular short story. A thriller made for winter.

When I was younger after each time I came in from playing in the snow my mom would smooch my bright red cheeks and make me a mug of hot chocolate. A reward for surviving the drop of temperature. I would go outside and bury my head in the snow, like a scared ostrich and come marching through the back entrance of our house to claim my goblet of warmth.

My time of tranquillity is ruined by the agony of dredging my feet through the two inches of snow. The sound of snowblowers and the fumes of gas and oil mixing would cause me to have a headache. But I have nothing against shovels, and I wish my neighbours would pick one up. I thought the snow topping the trees would calm me. On the contrary, my nose is running; I can’t feel my ears nor remember if I have any hot chocolate mix left.

I slowly hike up each step. Banging my boots to remove the build-up of snow. I shovelled before I left about twentyish minutes ago, yet a fresh layer of powder sugar covers the greyish-green paint that chips beneath it. I do not think my landlord used paint made for the outdoors. I feel my keys poking the top of my thigh before my hands can dig in to retrieve them. I am about to get the key into the lock when I notice it. A handprint splattered on the window.

It takes me a second at first. I think back, to recall if I took my medication. One day without my paroxetine, flashbacks and hallucinations creep into my world. I’m ready to push my palm to the window; when I go to take a small step forward, the sound of the snow and ice being compacted beneath my feet rings a little too loudly. My footprints are the only ones climbing the stairs and on the stoop outside the front door.

If the handprint was there before, then it would have completely frosted away. Yet, if it was made from the inside, it would not have been thawed all the way through. The world seems to enlarge around me. The streets pull taunt, houses becoming further and further away. Part of me wants to run because a handprint should not be causing me this amount of anxiety. But there is no one to run to, no one shovelling, no house with curtains drawn ready to welcome in their community lunatic screaming about an icy handprint.

There are two heavy lines, with no breaks on the grass, leading to the parking area around the rear.  When I get to the car park, the grey snow from the plow is scattered with burgundy, and the further I walk the brighter it becomes. Until I am staring at my roommate Stella, laying face first in the ice bank, just like me as a kid, five minutes prior to me asking my mom for hot chocolate.