Cold-hands
by Eli Dupree

She stood in front of her little fireplace, rubbing her cold hands together, vainly hoping that they would keep their temporary warmth when she turned away. She knew it was a vain hope; she knew that her hands were cold because she wasn't warm enough at her core. She knew that it was caused by outgoing blood exchanging its heat to returning blood, to avoid losing that heat to interactions with the cold outside. You might lose a few skin cells this way, and in the worst case you might get frostbite, but you'll be safe.
At long last, she turned away from the fire, knowing that she needed to sleep, dully dreading what would happen there. It was winter, and she did not like winter. Bad things happened during the winter, and if she went for a day without any new horrors, her mind would force her to remember the horrors of times before.
Idly, she touched the skin around her eyes, vainly hoping to smooth over the creases that had begun to appear there. Her idleness was short; before long, she turned back to the fire, knowing that it was useless to go to bed, already feeling the memories come. It was almost every night now.
It had been a winter like this one, more than twenty years ago. The snow had been crisp and icy, the low sun casting stunning shadows across its surface. She had been standing under the branches of a tall pine tree, its needles beautifully frosted, with a boy whose name she barely remembered and whose face was an icon in her memory. She had told him that she loved him, and she had meant what she said, but had not sounded like she meant it because she'd been distracted with worry about Them.
The flashbacks never began before this point. Maybe it was important how she had fallen in with Them, but it was not what she remembered each night. Maybe it was important to remember the countless little ways They had made it clear that she could not walk away from their games, but the less she remembered, the better she would feel.
She had known that They were coming, but it had changed nothing, just as running the memory over and over in her mind changed nothing about what had happened. They had guessed where she would go, and They had found her there, with her icon in her arms.
At the point when she saw Them coming, even her cruel mind skipped what happened next - the slow wait while they approached, the long slow dread of what They would do. They had called her one of them, and They would not let her belong to anyone else. When she frantically held him close to her, he had not known why – he had not seen Them, or he had not realized what they were, until it was too late.
She had opened her mouth to speak as They tore him from her, but had said nothing. When they shoved him to the ground, cutting his face and hands against the ice, she had dared say nothing. She had watched with them as they laughed at the blood pouring from his mouth; with them, she had walked away.
She stood now in front of her little fireplace, rubbing her cold hands together, vainly hoping that they would keep their temporary warmth when she turned away. From time to time, she touched the skin around her eyes, vainly hoping to smooth over the creases that had begun to appear there. Still, she knew that her cold hands were nothing but her body's way of isolating itself from the dangers of the outside. And she knew – When you isolate yourself from the outside, you might hurt a few people you never meant to hurt, and you might forever lose the trust of the one you love, but you'll be safe.