For Now, I am Winter

Prologue

I've known about the experiments since I was young.

Father would leave for work and come back drained and pale.

It didn't take me long to catch on to what was going on.

One night, as I lie in bed, I heard him and Mother fighting downstairs. I thought nothing of it. They fought a lot. But then I heard Mother scream and something crash. I lunged out of bed and ran downstairs. What I saw remains in my mind to this day.

Mother laid on the floor, blood pouring from a gash on her head. Father stood over her, a broken vase in his hand. I couldn't help the scream that left my lips. I fell to my knees and sobbed.

Father turned in my direction and I saw the anger in his eyes, the fury that darkened them. But then they softened and he looked at the vase, then at Mother, as if he didn't know what had happened. He then advanced towards me, dropping the vase next to Mother. It shattered right in front of her. She didn't even flinch. Her eyes remained open, unblinking, glazing over as more blood seeped into the wooden floor.

I screeched and shuffled away, by back coming up against the staircase. Father paused then, his eyes looking sad and confused. He questioned me on why I had screamed and backed away. Even at my young age, I knew what had just then happened. He had killed Mother. So, as a response, I screamed again, shouting for help.

To quiet me, Father jumped towards me and slapped his hand over my mouth. I struggled against him, but being only seven and him almost forty, you can guess who had the upper hand. I screamed into his palm, biting down on it as hard as I could.

Father cursed and yanked me towards the basement door. His foot slammed into it and it flew open. Angrily, he tossed me into the darkness then slammed the door shut. I tumbled down the stairs, yelping each time I hit the hard concrete they were made of.

I didn't hear from Mother again.

Ever.

***

I remained in that basement for what felt like months. Father would bring me food every couple days and water every few hours. I refused to touch anything he gave me, for fear of poisoning, and eventually I grew very sick.

It was the day that I collapsed that Father angrily scooped me up and shuffled me into the car. We drove to his lab, him cursing at other drivers the whole way. Once there, I was unloaded by two of his assistants and brought into a dark room.

The room smelled sterile, the air stinking of chemicals. Even though I was barely conscious, I remember wrinkling my nose at the smell. Father instructed them to place me on 'the table'. It turned out to be a cold metal slab with restraints for my head, wrists, and ankles. They strapped me in and Father came over with a rather large syringe filled with green liquid. It oozed out of the tip of the needle, dripping onto the floor with a sizzling noise.

He assured me that it would only hurt a little, just a pinch. Then I felt the worst damn pinch in my life, and fire in my veins. That's all I can remember before blacking out.

When I awoke, everything was different. The world was new.

I turned my head to the side, my eyes focusing on a cup sitting on the corner of a desk near me. I could clearly see the precipitation around it, droplets of water beading down the sides to form a small puddle. I could see the even smaller bubbles of oxygen caught in the droplets. I could smell everything. I could hear the traffic outside, despite my prior knowledge of Father's lab always being in the middle of a dense forest. The nearest road was miles down a gravel path.

Everything was so much clearer, louder, brighter—better.

That is, until Father walked into the room. Then everything went red. I remember feeling the most uncontrollable rage bubble up inside of me. I had never been so angry, so tangled in my emotions. I watched him walk to my side, peering down at me but never meeting my eyes. He didn't dare make eye contact. He checked my vitals and then I was shipped out.

A black cloak was thrown over my head and my hands were bound. I was sat upright and brought to my feet. But, the instant my feet were on the floor, I exploded.

I remember the anger more than the blood and screams—though those memories are there as well. I screamed the second I was sturdily on my feet. I don't know what my hands were bound with, but it didn't last more than a couple seconds once I pulled at it. Once my hands were free, I ripped the cloak from my face and shrieked. I recall how it sounded and remember looking around, confused for a second. I then noticed that I had made the noise.

A man to my left lunged at me, but I had easily evaded his grip. My eyes were trained on Father. He looked calm, his grey eyes trained on me with no signs of fear of any kind. He actually smiled at me. It didn't take long for the smile to leave, though, because in the next instant, he was on the ground. His eyes bugged as he clawed at his neck, choking up blood as he tried to register the fact that I had his esophagus in my hand.

After I was through with him and the other men in the room, I climbed out a window. The bars were easy to bend, like clay. It was a twenty-foot drop to the ground, but I landed lightly. The next thing I remember is a sudden calm taking over my mind and body. I listened to the wind in the trees, the animals scurrying through the underbrush, and the chirping of crickets as the evening began to turn to night. I was okay. And despite my own father's blood cloaking my body, the world was beautiful again.