Winter submarine

Another sigh echoed through the room and I turned my head to see Anne sitting by the window, staring out into the snow-covered urban landscape.

“What’s the temperature outside?” I asked. After a while she responded:

“Cold.” And in that moment, I snapped. She doesn’t even blink as I shout:

“Why can’t you answer my fucking question? Would it be such a problem to just say that it’s around -20°C?”

And after the echo of my enraged voice disappeared, her sigh replaced it and again filled the half-empty apartment. Still staring out the window, she then said:

“It’s very cold, Chris. Very cold.” I began pacing around the room like a caged animal in a zoo; walking from the dust-topped TV towards the sofa covered in chip crumbs and cat hair and after reaching the bar desk. I repeated this triangular route a few more times before stopping at the bar again. I looked at Anne:

“Can’t you carry these empty wine and beer bottles into the garage at least?” She looked at me like an all-knowing and terribly bored teenager. 

“You know it’s so cold that nobody is allowed to leave their home, let alone go out into the garage.”

“You always know what to say, huh?” I snapped. Then, a sudden rush of claustrophobia came over me. “How long have we been here for? Without going out? How long has it been snowing so much you can’t see further than to the bus stop?” She squared her shoulders:

“A week?” I groaned and closed my eyes, shaking my head.

“I- I need some air.”

“Don’t!” she exclaimed. “Don’t go outside! It’s the polar vortex, if you get stuck in the snow, nobody will find you!”

“I don’t care. I need to leave this apartment for a while.” She stood up.

“What about me – do you really want me to sit here and hope and pray for you to return?”

“Don’t over dramatize. It’s just some snow and strong winds.”

“But it was in the weather forecast, even in the news: don’t leave your houses, even in cases of absolute emergency!”

“So what. I need to be alone – away from this, this mess.” With my right hand, I swept the bottles from the bar desk onto the floor. The unexpected explosion of sound made her scream. But before she could say anything, I got out of the house.

The streets were empty – from the little I could see through the snow-storm, there was not a single living soul there. It was only me and snow-flakes that landed on the meter-high snow paths. It was cold and I didn’t even grab a hat. I could already feel my ears freezing and the tip of my nose eroding, all due to the merciless wind and polar temperatures. At one moment I wanted to return back into the house - but I didn’t feel like facing Anne, the mess of shattered glass, the stink of unwashed dishes. These thoughts moved my legs forward and away from our home.

Left, right, left, right. Left right left... Fucking hell, it’s cold! With clattering teeth, I looked back at our house – but it was camouflaged perfectly in the cotton whiteness of the snow-storm. I couldn’t even remember where I was exactly; was I near the bus stop? The school? Or was I just next door? How much have I actually walked? I looked down behind me, but my footsteps were already erased. Shit. I couldn’t see anything. My eyes began watering from the snowflakes that melted against my increasingly cold, but still relatively warmer face and I could feel the skin on my knuckles drying up and bursting open. Gradually, I could not think about anything else than just how cold it was. And about how foolish my decision to go out was.

Why couldn’t I just keep my calm like Anne? Endless days at home, just me and her... Endless possibilities! First we rejoiced at the weather forecast that literally handicapped the entire city and eliminated all chances of normal work hours - but it’s been almost 2 weeks. During these 2 weeks, our ideals of unlimited sex and cuddling, drinking hot cocoa, reading books, they all melted away. Because after just a few days, we each yearned for physical freedom, we ran out of milk and there was no empathy left in us to care about the fates of characters in Joyce’s Dubliners or the 1959 tragedy investigated in Capote’s In Cold Blood. In short, we ourselves became cold.

I believe that during these thoughts, I was still walking on. The storm grew even more intense and I had no-where to hide from it. At that point, I truly began regretting my decision to go out. And I realized I should do something about my temper; do some sport or get a hobby – something independent, fulfilling, fun... And the next thing I knew, my legs gave in and I fell face-down in the snow, unable to get up. I have no idea how long I was there. All I knew was that my nerve system shut down, my brain called for help – but in vain for my mouth wasn’t cooperating – and so it eventually shut down as well.

The next thing I remember is that I woke up in a room that was also as cotton white as the storm that got the better of me. In my first blurred, then clear vision, I noticed a slim, brown-haired figure next to my bed. It was Anne – and she was crying.

“What’s wrong, what happened?” She continued to cry, her shoulders were shaking and her face was hidden in cupped hands that caught her tears. I wanted to sit up and soothe her, tell her that everything is alright now, that I’m sorry about my temper, that I will talk to someone about it, make it better, get a better job and improve stuff between us... But I couldn’t sit up. I looked down at my legs.

At my legs that weren’t there.