The Attic

Eighteen

They woke up in Paul’s room.

            Paul turned towards John, wondering for a few seconds what was going on before everything hit him in full. Snow. John.

            He looked at the crumpled sheets, wound around the both of them in the most improbable ways, over one leg the under the other, most of it wrinkled and hanging limply off Paul’s side.

            The guilt was still there. It hadn’t gotten better since the day before. It seemed it was fermenting within him, churning at the thought that now he’d betrayed his wife. He’d see her again and make it right, he decided. After all, people didn’t die in modern times just from being snowed in. Surely the police was checking up on them, and they’d send a rescue team eventually.

            Paul stood from the bed, aching for something to do. He stepped out of the room, feeling the cold floor under the soles of his feet. The fire must have gone out sometimes during the night. As predicted, in the fireplace there was nothing but a pile of ash. Paul pulled a lighter from his pocket and switched it on to see if it still worked. A small yellow flame flickered.

            He threw their second-to-last log into the fire then flicked on the lighter again. A tentative fire licked its way up the bark. Paul turned from the fireplace and looked at the window. It was still the undeniable shade of solid white.

            A terrible thought occurred to him suddenly. How much air did they have in there? Paul breathed deeply, and it felt as though the air were too thick to breathe. Had they run out already? He ran to the door and flung it open. Ice and snow crumbled and fell at his feet, but Paul ignored the steady stream of ice as he clawed at the top of the door. There had to be a way out.

            He embraced the snow now, having created a small cavity. The snow was surely piling up behind him, his stinging ankles testified to the fact, but he kept going. His arms tingled in a funny sort of way. His skin had been cold at first, but now it was completely numb, and an almost fiery sensation was running up his bare forearms.

            Paul thought he felt a looser patch of snow, so he struck out at it with his right arm, forgetting. A strangled cry escaped him, and his first instinct was to pull his arm out to stop the razor-sharp feeling that was traveling up and down his arm, like every bone was slowly splintering apart, the pain rippling all the way to his lower back.

            Another little shout escaped him, because of the pain, and also the panic that his arm would not come out of the snow, and that the tugging was only making it hurt more.

            “Paul, it’s too early to—“ John saw Paul and he rushed to him.

            “My arm,” Paul said, gritting his teeth.

            John looked at it, then turned and went the other way. “JOHN!” Paul shouted, ready to spew a million curses at him for leaving, but John was already back, holding fire.

            Paul blinked and he looked better. John was holding the burning log from the fireplace in a pair of heavy iron tongs. John pushed Paul’s body aside unceremoniously, and held the flame to the ice encasing his arm. It melted away as if it had never been solid at all, and the ice just smothered the fire when John pulled Paul’s arm out.

            He shut the door and Paul was there, trembling, feeling the waves of hurt still radiating from his busted shoulder. A tear had been forced out by the violence of his pain, and he saw John’s eyes were somewhat wet too.

            “What were you thinking?” the older man said, his anger white-hot.

            “I—I thought we were running out of air, must’ve been a panic attack—“

            John said nothing, but moved back Paul’s sleeve, inspecting the sleeves. Paul couldn’t see his own wound, but from the flinch on John’s part he knew it was bad.

            “The stitches… they’re bleeding.”

            John’s fingers came back red as he let Paul’s shoulder go. “I’d best change your dressings for you…” he muttered.

            Paul leaned back against the wall, feeling the waves of pain ebb. He only hoped that this hadn’t harmed the healing process.

            He watched John leave, staring at the back of his tousled head, when he heard a horrible creaking, screeching sound. “John!” Paul shouted, and John’s head snapped back, and he jumped backwards a few inches just in time for the beam to fall. The noise it made was impossibly loud, and part of the ceiling’s material followed to sprinkle dust on the heavy wood.

            “That was meant for me,” John said, eyeing the heavy beam. He’d been standing there not a second ago.

            “It…must have been the weight of the snow…” Paul said, but his explanation sounded forced even to his own ears.