A/N: Written as part of English Coursework when I was fourteen, the only changes made to this have been grammatical in nature. Please rate and review…

Arctic Wasteland

by The Lurking Writer

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I could feel nothing but the sheer cold. Icicles had formed under my nose, one eye was frozen shut; the arctic wasteland was like a near-perfect mirror image of the clear blue sky. I had no idea there was a blizzard until it felt like I was trying to walk through a solid wall. It was so intensely white I could barely see my frostbitten hand two inches from my face.

If snow and ice had odour, I could not smell it. If there were specific details or patterns to the snowing, I could see none. If wind had flavour, I could not taste it. The only senses that had not failed me were touch and hearing. The only thing that let me know that I was still alive was the roar of the snow and ice as it hurtled towards me, pounding against me, continuously. Screaming and wailing like an Irish Banshee. Unending, unrelenting. Continual.

Hunger was a constant, like I was being clawed to pieces from my innards to my skin. The wind gnawed at my exposed flesh. I stumbled and trip on lumps of ice as hard and as immoveable as granite. Burning heat travelled like wildfire up my leg where fate had led to it twisting and possibly breaking. Revelling in the sudden warmth of pain. Almost allowing to be consumed by it.

Reflex, or instinct, had caused me to crawl into a survival position, trying to keep my leg straight. Nearly succeeding at my attempts to cover my hands and face. The hazy feeling of drifting in, and out, of consciousness. The pain eventually receded from throughout my body. Replaced by the nervous feeling of butterflies in my stomach. The feelings of uncertainty: whether I would live or die, then and there. Images of home and warmth wandered lazily through my mind, like taking a stroll on a hot summers day. Pain was a constant companion: a Siamese twin, or a parasite? Seemingly unable to go completely away, always a lingering touch, like that of death.

Death is a life-changing experience.

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—Finis—