Hailstorm

Everything is still, and so am I–my rigid body stuck to the frozen earth. From each toe’s end to every eyelash’s tip, I am fixed to this icy hailstorm that is hellbent on holding me here. It’s as if pillars of sleet hold my body down, as if frozen chains seize my wrists and ankles. My heavy jacket fails to shield me from the unrelenting blizzard; my snow pants follow suit. Soon, my hands and feet go numb. The snowfall consumes me, biting and carving at my skin. It threads through my hair, sticking chips of frost into my scalp. All but my eyeballs lock in place like a statue constructed from ice. My breath twists and curls until it’s cast off into the wind, vanishing as quickly as it appeared. Ice shards fly into and scratch the inside of my lungs with each inhale. Every exhale pushes the fragments back out, grinding at the sides of my throat. My blood thickens, and my bones freeze over. My muscles tense up, bracing for every wall of frost that presses against my ribs and crashes against my face. I am bound to this white cyclone, and eventually, I am lost to the whiteout, fading in its obscurity, astray in its endless hellscape. Very soon, my shivering will cease, and I will feel nothing but the deceiving warmth that greets me with open arms.