Читать книгу: «Snowdrift»

My phobia started a long time ago, in a way I wasn't expecting. I guess that's just how it is. You live your life as it should be: a light-hearted boy, not thinking about anything, not focused on the future, enjoying every day, the sun and random sweets. And then suddenly, something out of the ordinary happens, and you don't remember how it was before.

Now, I guess things are pretty good, all things considered. It's been ages since I moved south. I live a pretty simple, quiet life, as far as that applies to my existence.

In short, I'm afraid of winter. Or rather what it brings: snowdrifts. Probably sounds silly or at least funny, but what can I do? My personal thing. Of course, this is not the life I dreamed of when I was a kid. I thought I'd grow up to be a pilot, or at least something close to one – an aeronautical engineer or maybe a dispatcher, but it didn't turn out so well. I'm about to turn thirty, and I haven't even started living yet. Actually, I finished when I was thirteen.

***

It was right after my birthday, in the winter. I decided to take a walk through the snow-covered town where we lived with my mother at the time, towards the park. To me, it seemed like adults do this mysterious thing from time to time, and I thought, well, why not? So, I started doing it: walking with an expression in my eyes that said I was thinking about something else, as if there were something more to life than this very walk.

It was getting evening. Large unhurried snowflakes were falling, as if they were hanging peacefully on air invisible threads. It created a general fairy-tale impression of a patterned, barely swaying curtain, light and inviting. There wasn't a soul in the street: only me and good-natured snow, which was understandable. In the long post-New Year's holidays, everyone was at home: no people rushing from work or screaming schoolchildren. It was so peaceful and quiet.

I wandered, picking up snow with my feet, trying to look at myself, breathing in the frosty air through my slightly stinging nostrils, and thinking that it was very cold, and that and that I should’ve worn gloves. Suddenly, I saw a strange boy on a bench in the park. He was younger than me, with bright blue eyes, a face flushed with frost, and strawy, unruly hair. He was wearing a light jacket and a single glove. He looked like a gosling.

It was strange that I didn't know him: in our neighbourhood, it was rare to meet an unfamiliar face. All this, coupled with his funny appearance, made me slow down my already slow step. It was as if I hesitated, and without knowing why, I felt embarrassed by my hesitation. The gosling, who immediately pulled himself up, swung his legs vigorously, and stared at me with a wide grin and a gap between his teeth.

I immediately thought about what he was happy about on such a freezing cold day. The boy was just sitting there on the icy bench, made tsk sounds through the gap in his teeth, and seemed to be waiting for me.

– Dreaming? – he either asked or stated. It sounded like we were old mates.

I thought about it a lot later. Somehow, at that moment I didn't find this behaviour strange. It's almost like a dream when you think everything is natural when you're inside, and only when you wake up do you realise how illogical it is.

– I guess – I mumbled, intending to walk on by.

The boy chuckled again and jumped up from the bench, clearly pleased that I'd answered his question. The gosling followed me.

– I'm thinking, too – he smiled even more.– It's good to think in winter. Snowflakes are like pendulums – they calm you down.

– Listen, kid, I really want silence, – I tried to get away, but he wouldn't let me.

– That’s what I'm talking about, – he persisted, ignoring the hint. – Winter, silence, snow. I just love snow. It's my friend.

– I guess you don't have any real friends – I started to be rude, and slightly increased my step, but the gosling continued to look sincerely into my eyes, ignoring it.’That's a bit of a mouthful.’

– Isn’t the snow real? Very much so. A reliable, silent friend, always on time. Sometimes I'd like to be a snowdrift.

– What? – I laughed at the obvious stupidity of it.

Now I think I shouldn't have laughed. Some people dream of being president or a pilot – nobody minds. There's nothing special about a snowdrift. Everyone's entitled to their opinion. But then I laughed.

Then he repeated what he said without seeming embarrassed at all:

– A snowdrift. That would be marvellous! Imagine sparkling in the sun during the day and under a street lamp at night, all peaceful and quiet. It'd be great!

– Well, what if there's no lantern? – ‘what a weirdo’.

– What's the point of the moon? And anyway, when there are snowdrifts, it's so bright at night without the moon.

We reached the end of the park and turned back along another alley. Everything around us was covered with snow, half-frozen to the ground. It was falling in such a dense, unhurried shroud that it seemed to be flying from the bottom to the top, not the other way round.

– Ha, first time I've seen a kid who dreams of being a snowdrift. Are you sure you haven't hit your head recently?

The boy pretended not to hear the question:

– I don't want to be like everyone else. If I become a snowdrift, I'll protect plants from wind and frost and keep bugs warm. A snowdrift is strength, power, you have no idea what kind! – he continued to prove inspirationally.

– Oh, I can't. And to die in spring? – I teased again.

– Is there no difference when? A snowdrift at least watering the ground while dying, and you will die – what's the use? Plus, don't forget, next winter the snowdrifts return – eternal life.

– So it'll be different snowdrifts. Last year's are already gone.

– But that's not a fact, nobody cancelled the water cycle in nature.

– But listen, a human being is a living organism, with thoughts and processes, and a snowdrift is just water, – I continued, kicking the snow with my foot and not believing that I was seriously discussing it at all.

Meanwhile we walked back to the bench where I had met him. He was about to turn back into the park, but I stopped, intending to go home.

– Isn't a human being a water? The form is different, but the essence is the same, – the boy persisted, taking off and putting on his blue, ragged glove. – And there are no more thoughts in another man than in a snowdrift, but it is not that useful, but how much harm!

– Still, it is better to be a human being: one has a will, an action. But a snowdrift does not direct its life in any way: it fell out, where it fell out, and lies humbly waiting for someone to shit in it.

– The snowdrift simply understands the inevitability of shit in our lives. As if it doesn't exist in the human world. It's full! But about falling out, where you fall out: ‘You get worn and torn in the place you were born’, have you heard that? People also fall out where they fall out, and most of them have been around this place their entire lives. Even if you've gone far away, all in white sneakers and asphalt, the town is still with you forever, right here,– he tapped his temple. – I wouldn't like that. The snowdrift is free and lives as it wants without all these conventions, – the boy tsked loudly between his front teeth again, looking thoughtfully at the treetops.

– What a fool! You can't seriously think a snowdrift is better than a man. A man can become anything! I'll definitely become a pilot, I'll fly everywhere. What about you? A janitor? – I asked with a sneer.

– What do you mean? Wow! Who have I been talking to for an hour? – he said, nervously. – I’ll become a snowdrift, I'll come to you every winter. You'll see! I'll be just like you… – at these words, the boy jumped up from his seat and bolted back into the depths of the park, as it seemed to me, angrily swiping at the snow.

– Like me what? – I shouted after him, wanting to annoy him a little more.

He was already quite far away from me, but he turned round (I imagined this moment a lot later) and shouted so loudly that it echoed through the snow-covered park:

– Everywhere, everywhere…

I didn't have time to ask his name, or where such a freak had come to our neighbourhood. I didn't know if he meant it or was joking. After watching him disappear into the distance, I slowly made my way home, thinking about what I'd heard. I decided I was going to go back to the park the next day to show that kid that he was a fool, but I didn't tell anyone.

The next morning, the boy was found dead in the park, frozen in a snowdrift.

***

I never told anyone about that. It was really scary. It was scary, sweaty and numb. I froze a few times when I heard footsteps, thinking it was someone knocking on the door. I knew that if the investigators found out about our chat, I would be dragged through interrogations, forced to recount that night over and over again, and finally ordered to look into the eyes of the dead boy at the identification. How could a child, of which I was one, talk himself into going through with it? You can’t. And why should I? Nobody knew about that meeting with the boy, and that's how it had to stay.

Capital investigators tied ribbons around the park, questioned officials and locals. The incident was categorised as an accident and considered undesirable for the town's reputation. So there was no official info, as if the boy had never been there. Then there were all these rumours, like the boy was some visiting grandma's grandson from a neighbouring village, a city quiet nerd with no special features. Either he'd escaped from cruel parents or from school persecutors, and he was hiding in a snowdrift for the night, like some survivalist from a reality TV show, just to prove he was manly. Basically, you can't find the truth. For days, it was all anyone talked about, and I was afraid to breathe for fear of arousing suspicion. Of course, I didn't even look in the direction of the park.

After the New Year's holidays, it was school time, and I was in a depressed state. I couldn't stop thinking about the frozen boy. I kept replaying our conversation in my head, going crazy, remembering every detail of that evening: the appearance of the gosling, his phrases, how strange he was.

On the first evening after the holidays, I was on my way home from school. I was walking along a path that had been used a lot, with snow all around it. It hadn't been cleared before spring. As I walked past an old fence that was leaning over, where there was a lot of snow, I heard a bit of crunching. I stopped and turned around, and I saw something move. I couldn't see very well, but I could just about make out that something was there. The snow that had been pressing against the fence slowly but surely rolled up, pressing the old boards sharply to the ground. It froze like a predator riding its prey. And again there was a ringing serenity: no wind, no rustle. I didn't understand why he fell now, but I felt uneasy.

The next day, on my way home, a clump of snow fell from a tree on my head, almost knocking me off my feet. I jumped when I felt something unexpected, took off my hat and started shaking it like it was full of dirt. Right then, I heard a quiet sound – tsk-tsk – and I stopped moving. I felt like I was covered in snow, it was so cold, and I couldn't breathe. I was confused for a second, then I started running home. I'd never run so fast before. It was as if I were racing against someone I couldn't outrun; it felt like I was going nowhere, rushing on the spot. I don't know how long it took me to get home, but I remember closing the door with trembling hands and listening. Silence. Absolute heavy silence. And only the blood in my temples: 'knock, knock, knock, knock.'

The next morning, I pretended to be sick. Mum, to put it bluntly, didn't like to leave me at home without a good reason, namely a fever. But I moaned and pleaded so much that eventually she gave in and let me stay out of school until the weekend.

On Monday, all my fears just melted away. I thought, there's no way something this stupid could be invented. It's ridiculous to be afraid of snowdrifts just because some stranger said something about them. I mean, yeah, he ended up freezing, but what's the point in being afraid of snow and every little noise now? I'm not one to believe in the walking dead, considering myself a pretty rational person. But I decided to take a walk in the park after school to try and prove to myself that I was being irrational. I thought, well, what's the worst that could happen? The park is just like a park – an old friend with whom I spent my entire childhood, where I know every hole and bump, path and stone.

It was bright in the park, despite the evening time, and there was even more snow (it had been snowing non-stop since that day). At one point, we even thought they'd declare a state of emergency and let us stay home from school, but no, snow is snow, and lessons are on schedule.

As if on purpose, there were snowdrifts everywhere, big and small, covering the whole park. There was just a narrow, trampled track through them, and for some reason, I was trying not to touch the snowy walls of the track. I passed a bench that was also covered in snow, and as I went past it I noticed a bump on the back where the boy had been sitting. My heart started racing, but I quickly got a grip and swept away the snowdrift with my mitten before I carried on.

Everything was going really well. It was quiet in the park, smelt of frosty freshness, I wasn't scared anymore, I'd got used to it. In fact, it was surprisingly easy and calm. 'Winter is an uncompromising beauty,' – I thought, feeling mature. In the evening light, the snow made everything seem incredibly pure and bright. 'How bright it is in winter, when the world is covered in a layer of snow' – I couldn't help but think of the gosling. In the lantern light, the snow sparkled, shimmering with the lights of winter, mesmerising. I gazed into this fairy-tale glow, as if enchanted, trying to see every ray. The white light of the lantern on the snow scattered into all sorts of shades, absorbing the whole palette of the world, promising boundless happiness. Suddenly, I heard my mum scream. She was running towards me out of the darkness through the park, all dishevelled and strange.

– Oh, Son, – she pounced on me, groping me. – Oh, thank God! What are you doing here? Oh, my God!

She was crying and pulled me out of the snow, her hands were thin but she pulled me close. She hugged me and I felt her warm hands on my face. I looked at her, completely helpless, waist-deep in snow, not thinking or feeling anything. And then, like a click, the world switched on, abruptly, as if someone had opened a door and switched off the light. I realised I couldn't feel my legs or arms, that I was trembling. Everything around me was noisy and whirling, but most importantly, it was dark. I heard voices approaching, I saw the night, deep and impenetrable. What about the lantern? Where did this darkness come from? The lantern wasn't lit.

I couldn't feel my body, so the men who came dragged me out of the park in their arms, saying something, then wrapped me in blankets and cried. But I heard nothing. I could only think of the shining snowdrifts in the lantern light.

Then they told me I'd been in the park for hours, in the cold and in a snowdrift, which was hard to believe. I'd just walked in and seen my mum straight away. As I tried to remember what had happened that evening, I kept thinking about the lantern. Over time, I started to think I'd imagined the light. The lanterns in our park had been battered for centuries, so why would they be burning that day? I couldn't explain to anyone, including myself, what I'd been doing in the park all that time, why I hadn't gone home, and, most importantly, why I'd been sitting in the snowdrift without hearing body signals, what I'd been thinking about. I was thinking about the gosling a lot, but I was determined to ignore any irrational thoughts and couldn't come up with any rational ones.

Mum was in shock. She was angry, not receiving answers from me, sobbed, shaking my shoulders, then dropped things endlessly, and sometimes strangely froze with a cup of coffee in her hands. I felt sorry for her, but what could I say? I couldn't believe it myself, but I was captivated by this boy I had laughed at. I tried to stop myself from thinking about it, but as my two weeks of sick leave were coming to an end, I realised that the madness was becoming a reality for me.

‘Thankfully’, this torture ended on Monday when I had to go back to school again. As I left the house, I knew that a new life would not begin on Monday, but rather the opposite. Have you ever felt the density of space when it becomes too tangible and convex? All objects are seen clearer, more relief, brighter – that's probably how our brain works under stress; it sees everything at once in small details. I was literally shaking. I was all sweaty and couldn't even cross the threshold. As soon as my foot touched the ground, I felt this icy chill right through my boots, like someone was seeping through the sole and up my foot. I got these white goosebumps crawling up my legs, and I could see them with my own eyes.

Then I heard my neighbour saying:

– Hello! Are you going to school? – I just nodded. – How lucky I am to have met you! Hey, could you help me carry the newspapers to the waste paper collection?

I was so happy with this elderly lady, I had forgotten her name. We got to school slowly, and she was asking about grades and strict teachers. I was muttering something in reply, occasionally looking around, but everything was calm. When I crossed the school threshold, I realised that this time I had avoided reprisals. I looked out of the window at the huge snowdrifts, which looked so peaceful. They were everywhere, and they were waiting for me.

After school, I didn't give myself a second thought, but rushed home as fast as I could. I ran through the snowdrifts, along the narrow path, deep into the snowy corridor, like a game in the open under the muzzle of a hunter. I felt my insecurities and vulnerabilities, and I knew that danger lurked everywhere. Somehow, I started singing an old song: 'Suddenly, like a fairy tale, the door creaked open…'

I skipped under a big tree (one of those that used to throw snowballs at me) and past a fallen fence, and caught a glimpse of the park with its old lanterns swaying in the wind. I was only fifty metres from the finish line and the house. I heard the melody in my head: ’How many years have I argued with fate…' – but it didn't get any easier. I saw something moving everywhere.

All around, life was going on, changing all the time, but I noticed it more than anyone else did. I could feel something running a step behind me; we were racing against the clock. I felt like IT was about to grab my ankles. I couldn't take it any longer: I looked round and…I tripped.

As I fell, I instinctively put out my arms and ended up sinking elbow-deep into the snow, gradually getting deeper and deeper. Without feeling any support, I kept falling into the snowdrift as if it were quicksand, as if there was an infinite black space beneath it. People say that a drowning man does not shout, but only flounders ridiculously and goes underwater silently, but I did not drown silently. But quickly. So the only thing I had time to shout was ‘Mum!'. The next second the snowdrift swallowed my body as I desperately tried to resist. The last thing I heard before diving in was a resounding, distinctive ‘tsk-tsk.' That Monday I remember as my last day of school, my last day of normalcy.

When they found me, I was lying motionless in a hole I had dug myself, with my palms smashed in blood. I was trying to dig my way out, literally digging my fingernails into the frozen ground and turning the snowdrifts around me into a bloody mess. They said I was in a state of shock, not blinking, not moving, just staring blankly, making strange clicking noises. I understood what they were saying. It all looked, to put it bluntly, like madness. Strange, frightening, inexplicable. I would be horrified to witness such a spectacle myself.

And then everything went on as if it had already happened to someone else, as if the universe knew how to proceed. The local 'specialists' were happy to see something new in my face, although, to tell the truth, they had absolutely no idea what to do with me. Especially in light of the fact that I continued to remain silent about the nature of my problem, afraid of making things even worse. I screamed at any attempt to drag me outside. The rumour of a newfound lunatic quickly spread through the neighbourhood, and my mother and I became shunned. I was immediately transferred to home schooling: who needs a teenager ‘with a surprise in his head’, and I was happy about it.

For several years before I graduated from School, every winter I was awaiting either southern neurological rehab or the four walls of my curtained room. After the ninth grade, I was finally diagnosed with a mental illness, so I was exempt from the army and could see a psychiatrist on my own account. My mum tried to negotiate with the whole world to get me a place at a small hotel by the sea, so to speak, to catch food: a job with no prospects, no money, no snow.

***

Now I'm doing great, you might say. Especially I feel how life is booming on warm days like today. I love it! There are birds singing all the time, not many tourists, and the sea is churning, but not too much. The air is full of evergreens, which make the place smell lovely and help me think and relax. And there's never any snow, which makes it a bit like heaven on earth.

It's a bit lazy to work on days like this, but there aren't many guests. Just one family today, and now the owner's taxi arrives with another group. It's a classic family of two adults and a six-year-old child. The mum is fussing in vain, babbling unintelligibly, while the father ‘bread with eyes’, occasionally utters phrases like 'you have a beautiful place here', audibly inhaling the air and smiling through the abundant vegetation on his face. The boy, on the other hand, is distantly playing with himself, climbing with his feet into the luggage trolley, which I am soon rolling across the territory.

– Okay, here we are, – I say to my charges, taking their suitcases into the room. – Have a good holiday!

I leave immediately, not expecting a tip – it's not customary for us, and we need to hurry: in half an hour I'm expected to unload the food in the kitchen, and before that I need to have time to spruce up the owner's car. While I'm cleaning the salon, I spot something on the back seat that looks like a rag doll, probably the boy's lost toy. I decide to take the find to the room. I knock on the door, but there's no answer. I knock again, and this time the door is open. I look in, and there's nobody in the room, and I can only hear the sound of water in the bathroom.

– Excuse me, – I say from the doorway, the door is slightly ajar.– I brought your toy.

– It's always lost! – A raspy voice says from inside. – Wait a minute.

I crumple to the floor in the corridor, holding the blue toy in my hands. It's made of thread and looks homemade. I'm keen to get out of there, I've got loads to do, and the guest is taking his time. I can't leave now, he'll tell the boss. Finally, a shaggy head appears from the doorway.

– Thanks, buddy! – A clean-shaven man (I didn't recognise him!), ten years younger, laughs. There's something disturbingly familiar about him, but I don't have time to think about it. I'm in a hurry. – Just one more minute, please. I'll thank you.

I tell him it's nothing, but he doesn't listen and goes back to the room, leaving the door wide open, telling me that the toy is as valuable as a handmade gift from my grandmother. As he rummages through his suitcase, I feel awkward, but I can't take my eyes off his profile. Strange haystack-like hair, long, almost feminine lashes, watery eyes, lips curving as if in a permanent smirk. I'm suddenly struck by the nasty thought that this type is very much like… And then he tsks!

Did you know there are endless corridors? I didn't. In an instant, the hotel corridor stretches like the belly of a boa constrictor, and inside I feel like a terrified, hunted animal caught in an unimaginable death trap. I run, seem to fall, get up and run again, as if all these years had never happened, as if I were a boy again in the snow, rushing through a snowy maze, afraid of falling and getting stuck. I can't hide or escape him this time.There are no more rules, but he is. I'm close to him, very close! I can feel his icy breath on the back of my neck and earlobe. I'll never make it through this corridor. My thoughts rush through my head and my feet stick to the carpet. My hands are shaking with cold, and I can hear that silent, icy scream in my ears.

Meeting a ghost is scary, especially when you're not expecting it. It's mad! I've come to terms with it in winter, among snowdrifts, but here it's summer. How is that possible? What has changed? What kind of creature can be 'everywhere-anywhere' without any snow? I just want to run, to go wherever I want, hide.

I stumble, pant, shake, and push myself to chase my staggering body without looking back. I don't remember how I end up in my room. I'm breathing. I look at the locked door and there's no one at the window. I have to pack my things, my papers, my bag. I throw everything that comes to hand into it. I look out the window again and immediately feel a pang in my heart: HE and his wife and son are leisurely going to the canteen for lunch, as if nothing had happened. You see, it's just an ordinary family day off, nothing more. He's got a smile on his face, holding the boy's hand and his wife's shoulders. It's a nice family moment, like nothing you've ever seen before. I don't think anyone's coming after me. What does it mean? Maybe it's a trap. I don't get it.

I'm sat on the bed trying to calm down and think, but I can't take my eyes off the window to be honest. I really need to calm down and think about everything. After a while, the panic starts to go away and I'm just left feeling really confused. Maybe I've made a mistake? Could it be someone else? Or is it just my memory playing tricks on me? There's no such thing as resurrection. It happens, when a man dies and becomes a snowdrift. It happens, when a snowdrift trying to get revenge by making you like him or something. But to become human again? That's a bit much. Well, you know, I'm not crazy. No, on paper, I am. At one time I was interested in many different 'specialists' who tried to strangle my logic in a strong professional embrace. But diagnosis is a formality, in this case an obvious mistake, which doesn't reflect what's really going on. I know how things really are.This guy is definitely someone else, a bit like that boy, the gosling. I need to calm down and observe, no rush, no crazy decisions. There are people around, I'm not a child anymore, I can stand up for myself. If I keep my head, I'm almost home free. It's ringing! I shudder!

– Hello? Where the hell are you? Going to unload? – The cook's voice, always on the edge of something, buzzes in my ears.

– I’m sorry, I'm running, – I mumble, hearing the phone hang up on the other end.

I guess some people's anger is worse than the snowdrifts.

***

I've been watching him all day. At first he's having a quiet lunch with his family, joking about something, carrying his frowning son on his shoulders.The boy's fiddling with his favourite toy without much emotion, ignoring his father's efforts, occasionally glancing in my direction, as well as at everyone else’s. Then they walk towards the sea, and I'm watching them furtively, trying to see the secret meaning in everything. If there's anything strange about them, it's the perfect appearance of a happy family. More than once, I've seen couples who strive to be exemplary in public, but turn out to be the exact opposite. Maybe that's the case here.

Towards evening, I'm assigned to clean the windows in the lobby. Through the glass, I see the new guests again, going to a dull evening cinema. Polishing the windows, I watch their reflection behind me. A boy and his mother are sitting on the chairs, occasionally losing popcorn on the floor, and HE separates from his little company and rushes towards me. I can see him approaching through the glass, but he turns slightly to the left, towards the table, to pour himself a cup of tea. I watch him from the side, pretending that window cleaning is my life's work. I can feel him looking at me, probably wondering which way to go.

– Is everything okay? – I hear behind me. It's starting.

My heart's beating really fast and I guess it's not beating anymore. I'm rubbing the glass, which is already really clear, twice as hard. I was hoping I'd have another night to think about it or escape. What should I do? Soon, I look around and see other guests, random people passing by outside the fence and a dog scratching his ear under a tree. The world looks almost as friendly as the person I'm talking to.

– Yeah. Sorry, I had to run out of there before. I remembered something, – ‘Well done, stay calm’ I say in my head.

– It happens, – he replies, rubbing the hot cup in his hands. – Do we know each other? I just keep thinking I've seen you somewhere.

He looks at me like we're old acquaintances, smiling (showing the gap between the teeth). He's definitely got acting skills – not everyone can act so casually. Okay, you want to talk, we'll talk. Apparently, a painful conversation is inevitable.

– Maybe. – I say. – Many years ago I lived in one town, we were walking in the park. In winter.

I look at him point-blank. What did you think I'd do, play it cool? Making up stories? What about this: park, snowdrifts, death? What are you going to do to me here? His blue eyes stare intently into mine, mad, dry. I can see him thinking about what he's heard.

– Wow! Of course! We were stuck in some town at the end of the world. My parents were fixing the car at a petrol station, and I was just wandering around the winter park, chatting with a boy. I don't remember what I was talking about.

– Snowdrifts!!! – I exclaim.

– What? – he is surprised (or pretends to be?). – Probably about snowdrifts. I just don't remember. Kids have their own way of talking about things. I was always making things up, talking rubbish. I can't believe you're the boy!

– Of course it's me. I thought – I'm suddenly embarrassed. – Well, there was a rumour that you froze to death out there in our park.

– Oh no, that's terrible. No, I would have noticed if I'd died, – he laughed. – You’ve got it wrong, mate. We left on the same day.

– Well, who died then? – I ask, but his face is already blurring before my eyes because I already know the answer. I grab onto him to keep from falling.

– Hey, are you okay?

– Grandma's grandson, the nerd… – I mumble to myself. – It was another boy. Another! Oh, my God.

I just went wherever I was, without saying goodbye. The space curves out with a lens, spinning my head with a convex reality, like when I left the house in winter to go to war with a snowdrift. My gaze is obscured by frequent snowdrifts, dizzy from the excess oxygen. I realise now that I never spoke to the frozen boy, I never met him, I never had anything to do with the snowdrifts except my imagination, except my own fantasy. I got very confused, let my imagination run my life, and the phobia took over me. I made up a scary fairy tale and believed it myself. Hello, my good logic! I've been a living dead man all this time, buried by my own fiction. All this time, the doctors were right: only my madness is real, not the snowdrifts.