Sim Writers Unite!

I am surrounded by the dead. They leave me alone. They do not come here. But they are always out there.  I see them, bobbing up and down on the waves. I want to whisper to them, mimic the voices of their lost loves, their estranged children, their abandoned parents. I want to appear to them dressed in the skin of their worst nightmares. I want to make the sea mad, the waves brutal, and laugh as they panic and struggle, helpless against me.

But I cannot.

I stand on the shore of my island, the ice smooth and cold under my feet, and I watch. He is coming. 

Soon.

It is always so cold here. I wiggle my toes on the ice. I am wearing a male skin today. The toes are big and hairy, the nails thick and unshaped. I frown at them. They change, become smaller, smoother. 

It is even colder when I am wearing a female skin, but I like it. It is so easy to drive the mortals mad in this skin. I remember what it was like, when I was warm, when I could walk under the sun, when the world was green and blue and brown and gold, when I could destroy whole families with a flick of these hips.

They locked me away here. They said that it was wrong, that the mortals were not our toys, that they had feelings and thoughts and worth, that we must not interfere with them.

I laughed. I still laugh, thinking about it now, here in the cold whiteness, surrounded by the dead.

The dead who will not come near.

Perhaps they remember me, still.

I remember them. I remember their warmth, their softness, how they blink in and out of existence. One second they are tiny and ugly and loud, so loud, and the next their bones are dust in the ground.

I remember how their bones felt in my hands.

I look at my hands, at the long delicate fingers. I imagine the man in the boat stepping out on to the ice. I imagine reaching out for him, taking hold of his wrist, squeezing it. I imagine the ice spreading, his fingers going white and cold, and then his arms and his chest and his legs and his face, all white, all frozen, all crackling and thin and sharp.

I imagine throwing him down, shattering him on the hard ground. I imagine red and brown and gray shards, glittering in the light. 

I look at my hands again. The fingers are thick now, the knuckles more pronounced.

The better to kill you with, my dear. 

The boat touches my shore. I shake my fingers, and they become thin and smooth again. He prefers me this way.

I do not know how long he has been coming here. He is not old, so it can’t have been very long. I do not like the mortals when they are old, when their hair is white and their skin wrinkled. Then they are slow and used to death, and they are not so fun to play with.

This one is still fresh. Although he is already used to death. He can see them too, the dead ones. 

He can see me.

He is not cold. I know what they are like when they are cold. Blue lips. Blue fingernails. Bluish tint to their skin. They are so pretty and blue when they are dying of cold. I used to make blizzards, sometimes. 

He walks over to me, and he does not leave prints in the snow. He does not slide on the ice. He is not bundled up in layers. His clothing is thin. He only shivers when he is close to me.

I wonder if I carry the cold with me. Perhaps that was their joke. Maybe this island is a paradise, full of green trees and warm sand, and the waves that seem so dark and gray to me are really translucent blue. 

I wonder if I will see the sun again, when I break out of their prison. Or will the cold follow me? You can only turn so many mortals into ice and shatter them. Eventually it loses its fun.

The man talks. He talks and talks and talks. I say things sometimes, when he stops and goes silent.  I tell him about the time before the cold. I tell him about the children who starved while their fathers chased me, about the women who came to me seeking help and died screaming. I tell him about the blizzards and the droughts and the wind storms, the great big funnels that scooped up mortal houses and flung them about. I tell him about driving men mad, about reading their heart’s thoughts and taking the image of their worst fears, their most bitter regrets, and hounding them until they took their own lives. I tell him about the beauty of blood, the artistry of bone. I tell him how I miss it, how it is dark and cold and lonely here on the island, how there are only the dead now, and they never come near.

He does not run away. I think maybe he cannot hear me. Not always. He did, once. The first time. He was shorter then. He saw me, and I read his heart’s thoughts, and I said “Help.”

He talks some more. There is no fear in his voice. He leaves, eventually. I watch him get into his boat and row away.

I have been cold for a very long time.

I am wearing my male skin when he comes again. I do not know how long it has been since the last time. Time. Time. Nothingness. Cold.

Always so cold.

I don't bother changing this time. The cold reaches into me. I want the extra hair.

    As I reach the top, I wipe the sweat from my brow and looked back to Macie. She has tied her hair up in a high bun with her cheeks puffed out red. I manage a laugh when she greets me. She's a worn out puffer fish. I assure her It's easier going down. She lets out a short breath and pumps her petals and I just glide down after her. We pass a elderly coupe walking side by side and a guy with a skateboard trying to get a ride.  As we reach the bottom, Macie leans her bike over and hits the button to turn. She motions me it's time to walk and I walk my bike over. My chain derails and I bend over to fix it.

With Make-Up

Eyes mostly closed

Eyes Open