AC
She exhaled. The air froze her breath, turning it to mist.
She turned, her high ponytail bouncing, and headed towards the fridge.
In her home hung icy stalactites. The floor was slick as a rink.
She cracked off an icicle as she passed through a door and picked her teeth with it.
Once this room was stiflingly warm, full of chaos and arguments and pets and children and steaming meals. Every blanket was a shared blanket. There wasn’t enough house to go around.
Now things were much better.
She checked her fridge and swore to herself. There wasn’t enough milk for her to make the ice cream. It was already time for another grocery run?
Grabbing her keys, she put on a visor and sunglasses, a light shawl, considered sunblock but decided against it.
When she opened the door, the sun hit her hard, even through the sunglasses. She took a deep breath of conditioned air before heading out. Her mantra would get her through this: only five minutes, only five minutes. Then she could be back home, making ice cream, enjoying the cold dark quiet isolation of her safe, safe house. With any luck, she wouldn’t have to talk to a single person.
Fresh Hell 