I can’t see anything. My eyelids are pressed down as though they are stone. I’ve died. I must be in the afterlife . . . ‘There she goes again, thinking she’s died. What an imagination that girl’s got.’ ‘Lucky for us all that she does, my friend.’ I know those voices. I’m wandering in the fog again, for how long I do not know. Then out of it comes another voice. I strain to hear it. ‘She’s stirring. She’s awake.’ I know that voice too. I want to reach out to touch him but I cannot. It is as if I am made of marble. ‘Not yet,’ says the light voice. ‘Be patient,’ says the harsh one. He takes my hand. His hand is warm so I know he cannot be dead. Does that mean I am not? My hand lies in his, cold, inert, heavy. I can feel words in my throat and tears in my eyes, but the words cannot rise and the tears cannot fall. I feel the touch of his fingers tracing the outline of my face. The fog thins. I feel the touch of his lips. On my forehead, ears, eyes, lips. His lips are so soft, but mine might as well be made of stone.
What do You think about Scarlet In The Snow (2013)?
