Flakes Not Of Snow

Written by Neenee Hu

The fog around her swirls in the cold air. Does she notice the way it clings to her skin, like unwelcome perfume or sweat?

It smells of pine needles and dead paper cells. The pulp of an ancient letter, the twinkle of Christmas trees.

She blows into her hands, breath traveling through crinkles in her palms. Her skin grows pink in the frost, flushing warmly despite the shiver that runs through her body.

Her eyes glance up at the sky. It's gray, a sponge that's soaked up too many tears and too much slush this dawn.

Can she hear the whispers of the snow? The ghosts of fall, drifting off as it's blanketed in white, and the dewy leaves turn frozen?

A flake catches in her hair, curled like an orange peel, freshly shredded for zest or juice. It sticks to her brown curls as she attempts to shake it off, latching on like a burr.

She gingerly plucks it from her brunette waves and drops it to the curtains of white that shimmer atop the grass. It wavers in the air like an open flame, a candle left too long, before burying itself in the frosty sparkles.

She huffs softly, covering it with the sole of clunky pink boots and a brush of sudden cold.

The flake trails red into the snow. Odd. That's not the color that crystals of winter make.

She swallows hard as she stares at the crimson trail. She leans in and softly sniffs, catching the metallic tang in her nostrils.

Blood.

She skitters back in the thick, deep winter carpet, shoveling more snow over onto the little trickle of blood that seeped through the icy slush.

She slowly looks up again at the building where the flake had fallen.

Her boyfriend's house.

. . .

"I'm just scared, y'know?"

The cafe bustles around her as she sits across from him, hands trembling around her beverage.

"It's odd. I mean, it was skin, Thomas. That's not an ordinary occurrence," she mumbles.

She puffs on her latte and takes a sip. She gags. Too much sugar.

"It is quite unnatural," he agrees. He reaches out to touch her cup and hand with two fingers. "Don't fret, my dear. I'll get to the bottom of it."

The shoveling of snow is always hard, especially when it's heavy and damp. He holds his hatchet over his shoulder and continues to dig through frozen earth, heaving away frost and old, dewy grass that has long since died underneath.

He creates a mound of slush, ice, and dirt beside him as he works, listening to the screeching of owls around his house, until he reaches the spot, the hole of a large, messily dug grave.

He gently skims his finger around the body in his newly rediscovered hole, feeling the icy coldness of the skin, the absence of pulse in the neck, and wrist. He inspects the corpse's forehead. A single, peeled strip of skin is gone.

He nods. Of course, of course.

He slowly covers the dead back up with his shovel, pressing and smoothing out dirt until it looks normal. He waits for the snow to patch the revealed earth before he turns on his heel and walks away.

Back to his sleeping girlfriend, curled on the couch in her blankets and his sweater.

Back to the crackling fireplace where the evidence usually burns.

. . .

She stares outside, bundled in a soft sheet as she holds it around her quivering, slender body. Her sequin shirt sparkles underneath.

The snow continues to drift outside, surrounding the house in shimmery white.

Except one patch is an inch lower than all the rest.

She blinks, narrowing her eyes. Odd.

He comes up behind her, wrapping two arms around her small waist.

"Thomas," she whispers. "What is that?"

He glances over her shoulder and shrugs. "No idea, honey."

She nods. She shouldn't be worrying about a small inch of snow. It's just snow. It's just snow.

He grins and squeezes her abdomen with his arms.

"No need to fret," he says again. "I'll get to the bottom of this."

He lies in his bed. His ladylove has long since left the house for work, wearing high black boots and a cashmere coat. He practically swoons at the mental image.

He looks outside again. The snow is one inch lower where the corpse sleeps forever.

He balls his hands up into fists.

If she finds out, what will happen to him?

. . .

She sits outside. The snow had stopped months ago, leading to blossoms and weeds galore.

One patch of ground feels odd underneath her feet. Perhaps it has not defrosted yet.

But she finds one clue. One clue that makes her shudder and overthink. One clue that makes her suspect there's something else.

Another curled flake, spotted in the wild grass of spring among the daisies.

Red, twisted like an orange peel, and threatening.

"Thomas," she whispers one day, bundled in summery sheets over her shorts.

He looks up, his head resting on her mostly bare thighs. "Yes, my darling?"

She glances outside again, her hands tangling in his dark curls, like a grounding lifeline. "I found another one."

His eyes widen for a split second before he relaxes again.

"Odd," he murmurs. "Perhaps it's from an animal."

She nods. "Perhaps it is."

He inhales shakily when she is asleep, dreaming peacefully.

She cannot find out.

. . .

She's standing in the bathroom. Her hands are full of some cleanser he bought her for Christmas.

She leans forward and inspects her face in the mirror.

Not just acne or pale skin underneath her brunette bangs.

A single strip, curled back, exposing stinging pink underneath, on her smooth forehead.

They say she never existed.

They say she never lived.

They say she was a liar, a fraud, a misfit.

But nobody speaks of the bag underneath his bed with pale, creamy peels, red, twirly, and leaking. Sealed shut to prevent odor.

Labeled "Artemis Ezra, Girlfriend" on the top.