I stand numbly in the freezing air. The cold wind taunts me, brushing my skin with the sting of winter. My cheeks must be red, irritated. The sky might be beautiful, moonlight cast through the bare branches above, if I was looking at anything. But I’m not, really. I’m not looking at anything. My body belongs to a faded statue, rooted to the ground in the middle of the night. I feel the snow throw its weight over me, over the ground, over the barren dirt and my stone shoulders. The night stands still as I wait, alone. Wait for something to take me away. Tell me that it’s okay. I wait for the world to stop turning, to do anything that would resemble the way it is inside my chest. The way my fingers are stiff at the side of my leg. I don’t move, but it keeps on. The wind keeps turning. The snow keeps falling so gently that I want to scream and tear it down out of the sky, but I don’t. I roll my gray eyes to the clouds and stare at nothing.