Snow Angels by Hillary Berg

I lie in bed with my arms wrapped around my legs, knees pressed against my chest. Outside, the snow is dancing furiously in the darkness. I have been awake for at least three days, maybe more. I am cocooned in a comforter that is patterned with grinning snowmen. They are unaware that they, too, are made of snow. I imagine myself in their place, standing perfectly still—a scarf wrapped tightly around my neck—as skin flakes fall from the sky. I picture children playing around me, bundled in snow pants and winter jackets, their mittens dangling from string. They make angels in the layers of skin accumulating in the yard, throw tightly packed skin balls at each other’s frostbitten faces, and catch falling skin flakes on their tiny pink tongues. My mind snaps back from its wanderings and I sit up suddenly, choking out a hollow and hacking cough. Several seconds slip by and it doesn't stop; I fear my ribs will splinter, puncturing my congested lungs. The vision of flesh falling from the sky is deflated. My cough subsides.

As I blink, my eyelids scrape across my corneas which are already red and irritated from lack of sleep. The veins covering the whites of my eyes make erratic time lines of how long I have been suffering. I strain to focus on the digital alarm clock across the room. The red numbers read 2:27 A.M. I stare out my window, watching the snow cover the ground, glistening under the street lamps.

I am Eleanor. Everything about me is awful. I believe a name has the power to change you from the instant it is given, and I believe mine has fated me for a life of anguish, despair and loneliness. If I had been named something cute and chipper, such as Joy or Melody, perhaps my life would have turned out differently. My name sounds like someone’s miserable grandmother, and that’s how I feel. Whenever I mention this in front of my mother, she tells me I am being melodramatic. She tries to convince me that my name is “beautiful,” that it means “the light of the sun,” or some shit like that. I am not a beautiful person and I sure as hell am not filled with sunlight.

I have never been attractive, nor do I care to be. Not anymore. I don't go out, so my appearance doesn't matter. It’s not that I’m ugly—just apathetic and unkempt. As a child, I was plain, shy, and unnoticed. I kept to myself, and was content in being overlooked. I didn’t have any friends and instead spent my time reading all the books I could get my hands on. Now, as a teenager, I am as unremarkable as ever. My hair touches my shoulders; it is grey-brown—knotted from constant tossing and turning. I am always touching it—matting it down—which causes it to be saturated with grease. My eyes are a dull blue, resembling thick fog. Without sleep, they look soupy and muddled. My body, taking cues from the rest of my appearance, is an atrocity. It is shaped like a pear; lumpy and uneven. Clothes hang awkwardly off my frame and all colors clash with my hair color and skin tone.

Besides being unattractive, I am perpetually sick, and in the winter the sickness attacks with full fury. I am a snot-filled, hacking, chapped, red-faced mess of a person. My face feels like fire and my nose is stuffed and runny at the same time. I use Kleenex but I might as well be rubbing steel wool across my skin. My under eyes are swollen and tired. I look like I just lost a boxing match. My lungs are heavy with mucus and fluid, and I cough full and thick—hacking up things I didn’t even know were inside of me. I wear a sweater which envelopes me, the sleeves crusted with mucus and spit. I remain cold, but unfrozen.

When I was in the second grade, I almost made a friend. Her name was Amelia, and she was one year younger than me. She was a pretty girl, with large blue eyes, and blonde hair. She was small for her age, but her personality made up for her size. She made her presence known, and was friendly to everyone, even the boys. There wasn’t anything extraordinary about her, but she performed an amazing feat—she got me to speak.

The day was too cold for recess, but the teachers forced us outside anyway. I was sitting on a swing, alone, halfheartedly pumping my legs. She strolled up to me and introduced herself.

“Hello! My name is Amelia,” she said, proud and confident, plopping down onto the swing next to me.

“My name…is Eleanor,” I replied timidly, as I looked at my dangling feet. For a moment Amelia just sat, looking at me. Finally she spoke. “I have a dog. He’s a golden retriever. His name is Sasha. Do you have any pets?”

“I have a cat. Her name is Whiskers.”

“I love kitties! I wish I had a kitty, but my mommy is allergic to them, so we had to get a dog, but it’s okay cuz I like doggies too. Sometimes Sasha likes to lick my face, and it’s wet and gross, but I don’t care, because that’s how he shows he loves me. I don’t lick him back though, I just pet him.”

“When I pet Whiskers, she purrs. She sounds like a car.”

Amelia laughed. “Can you imagine her driving on the street? Vvvrrroooooom!”

I giggled a little, “Watch out for Whiskers! Or you will get runned over!” I pumped my legs a little harder, swinging a little higher. Amelia pumped her legs and matched my speed. We were swinging in sync, jabbering away.

The recess bell rang and Amelia jumped off her swing, landing on her feet in a pile of snow. I jumped, but landed with a thud on my butt, cushioned by snow pants. Amelia turned to me, “You want to come over sometime? We could build a snowman or something. The snow’s all sticky and perfect. Sasha can help us! He’s really good at rolling snow. He does it with his nose.”

“That would be fun!”

She smiled and ran inside, her blonde hair flapping wildly behind her. I brushed the snow off my pants and walked back inside.

Two weeks later, Amelia was dead. She was playing in the snow with Sasha. The dog playfully competed against her red scarf in a game of tug of war, choking her to death. Her parents found her that afternoon, her body positioned on the ground like a snow angel—her tiny footprints circling her body in the snow.

I remember attending Amelia’s wake to view her body. It was my first experience with death. She looked so perfect in her dress the color of ice. The trim was laced loosely around her neck, framing her yellow hair and painted pink lips. I stared—her eyes were closed—she was sleeping forever. When my mother tucked me in that night, I was afraid I would never wake up. I didn’t want to end up in a white casket—made up like a doll—prettier in death than in life.

At the funeral, the children sang Silent Night. Their tiny voices sang in unison. Sasha, unaware that he had done anything wrong, was put to sleep.

I haven’t had another almost-friend since then, and each winter—no matter how frigid—I remain scarf-less.

My room is in the basement of the house I share with my mother. I graduated from high school this past spring, but decided to skip the whole college thing. I figured there was no point in wasting my mother's money on an education I wouldn’t use. My sleep habits prevent me from interacting with the daytime world. I have difficulty remembering things and paying attention, so the college lifestyle would be difficult to maintain. My mother has grown accustom to my apathy. She used to try to encourage me to go out, to make friends, to do something, but it was no use. Now she just leaves me be.

My bedroom is small—adorned only with a bed, closet, dresser, television and bookshelves. A large window takes up most of the wall adjacent to the door, and my bed is underneath it. The negative space of my room is a labyrinth of novels, newspapers, textbooks and poetry. There is a narrow path from my bed to the door.

The many hours I am awake, I read books; obscure titles purchased at garage sales and thrift stores. I have boxes and bookshelves overflowing with them, stacked in corners, and under my bed. Most of the books are shit (I read them anyway), but there are a few treasures hidden among them. An Encyclopedia of Medical Curiosities, a tattered copy of Jane Eyre, and several old horror comics are among my favorites. I like to lose myself in the dream worlds of absurd characters and situations.

I remove the comforter from my shivering body and get out of bed. I walk from my bedroom, up the stairs, to the rest of the house. The house is quiet and devoid of life, like a morgue. I think my mother is sleeping in her room upstairs, but I can’t be sure. All of the creaks and noises that usually accompany the old house have disappeared. Instead, my bones fill the silence with a cacophony of clanks and clatters as they collide; ankles clicking and grinding with each step, as if ridden with arthritis. I feel old and exhausted.

Upstairs, the living room is empty except for a single chair and love seat resting on the dirty carpet. I wish they had companions. I mourn for the love seat without a lover, the chair without an ottoman. Our walls are bare and white, lacking the family photos and knick knacks. There is no evidence that the people living here have a history or a life worth presenting on a wall.

I heat a cup of mud-flavored instant coffee in the microwave. The clock reads 5:57 A.M. I don't care that caffeine makes me shake and hinders my sleep. I finish the entire cup, even the gritty sludge at the bottom. I am blinded by cold light as I open the fridge and take a mental inventory of its contents. Should I make a sandwich or have a piece of fruit? I choose a tiny red pomegranate. I clear books away from the table (Revenge of the Serpentine Orphans—why do I buy this shit?) and sit down with a spoon, a bowl, and my little fruit. How the hell did my mother get a pomegranate in the middle of winter? I slowly peel away the skin with the spoon, allowing the seeds to spill into the bowl. I suck the juice from the seeds, reminded of Persephone—queen of the Underworld. She was tricked into eating seeds from a pomegranate, creating the winter season. I spit the seeds into the bowl. I'm sure my teeth and lips are stained the purple bruise color that is unique to pomegranates. I don't care. I abandon the shriveled seeds and skin peels on the counter and walk to the bathroom, searching for something to calm my cough and put me to sleep. The medicine cabinet is stocked with sleeping pills, aspirin, diet pills, antidepressants, eye drops, laxatives, cough medicine, and some unmarked bottles. I swallow a concoction of pills, including a few unmarked tablets, which I hope are for congestion.

Sleeping pills don’t have an affect on my system. I started taking the recommended dosage of two pills, but I now take six. They still don’t do shit. My body is in control. It tells me when to eat, when to sleep, and when to pee. I am a slave to its impulses. When it does allow me to sleep, it is only for three hours, usually late in the morning. It is enough to keep me alive, but that’s about it.

I run my tongue over my teeth. They are filmy and stained. I cover my toothbrush with the organic toothpaste that is lying on the counter. It tastes like vomit, but I brush my teeth for exactly two minutes and spit out the foamy paste. I floss, counting the spaces between my teeth, until my gums bleed. I fill a Mickey Mouse themed Dixie cup with water. I gargle, hacking up a substance resembling cream of chicken soup. I crumple Mickey’s face and toss him into the wastebasket. I shuffle back downstairs, through my labyrinth, to my bed.

I punch my pillow in an attempt to make it comfortable, but I fail. I throw it to the end of the bed and reverse myself—head at the foot of the bed, feet touching the headboard. I try to lie on my back. I frame myself with pillows to trick myself—I'm not just a free-floating body on the edge of a bed—I have someone there beside me.

Outside, snowflakes fall silently in the calm air. I go back into the fetal position, my spine twisted painfully into an arch, my legs bent towards my chest. I check my clock—7:39 A.M. I cover my face with the blanket like a shroud. I am wrapped in the darkness, hoping for sleep.

I think the sleeping pills are finally taking effect. I feel the chemicals flowing through my veins, through my heart, and to my brain. The drowsiness is overtaking my body. The aches in my bones and the throbbing in my head subside. My head feels weightless, as if it were detached from my body, floating to heaven. I wish I could sleep forever. I close my eyes and wait.

My body sinks into a dream world of snow castles and snowstorms—of little girls creating snow angels—their mittens caked with snow. I see Amelia, rolling in the snow with Sasha who is barking with excitement. Amelia’s back is covered with snow and her yellow hair is messy under her ear muffs. She sees me and beckons me to come with her. I pick up snow with my mittens, and run towards her, laughing. Sasha runs to greet me and tackles me to the ground. He licks my face furiously, covering me with slobber and goo. It’s disgusting, but I am the happiest I have ever been.