((Author Note: This follows the events detailed in "A Contemplative Mood."))
Locke was slogging through an endless field of drifting snow, the wind carving miniature channels that vanished quickly as the winds gusted and let up, as the flakes steadily poured down. It was quiet, peaceful, empty. Nothing but flat whiteness as far as the eye could see, very nearly blending in with the grey skies and horizon he was walking towards. It was...heaven. Only, he felt cold.
He stopped and looked down at his palms. Ungloved, they were now a shade of alabaster, not pale blue. The hand print burned into his right hand was now a pale pink color, brightly standing out against his pallid flesh. He flipped his wrist, taking a gander at the top of his right hand. Still white, still scarred. He shivered, and tried to think of what to do to keep warm. There was no firewood, not a single tree, bush, or blade of grass to be found. He had no winter coat, only his usual bartending outfit: a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, skinny black tie, and fitted trousers of the same hue as the tie. He reached for his back pocket, where he usually kept his gloves, but found nothing in either one. With a sigh, he wrapped his arms across his chest, digging his hands deep into his armpits for what little warmth they could provide him. It was time to keep moving. Where? There.
The wind began to whistle, then sing, then speak, a thin reedy voice that cut sharply through the silence. ?Why...didn't you say it??
?Say what, praytell??
?You...know what I mean.?
?No, I do not.? Locke stopped, despite his best judgment, and craned his head, futilely searching for the voice. "Explain yourself."
?You...can lie to yourself, but not to me. Think...for a moment.?
There was a long pause, before Locke's next words came, barely a breath. ?Fine, mate. You want me to say it now??
?...Yes...?
?All right.? Locke placed his hands on his hips, then opened his mouth to speak again. As soon as he did, the words were lost in a roar of wind. Again, he tried to speak, raising his voice, but a whining gust carried his words where no ears, not even his own, could hear them. Finally, he screamed at the top of his lungs, until his throat felt raw, but the wind would not let him be heard. Exasperated, Locke fell to his knees in the snow.
?I-I did what you asked. Why won't you listen??
?You... need to go there,? the wind said, picking up speed and blowing on his back as if to push him forward. ?And... say it there.?
?Fair enough, mate. I will.? Prodded forward, he trudged through the mounds of snow before him. It was up to his calves, making each step a heavy and awkward affair, especially since he wasn't wearing boots. He grimaced, as he thought of what all that moisture must be doing to his wingtips. They're probably bloody unsalvageable at this point. Lost in his thoughts, he didn't notice the shift in the sound of his footsteps. The staggered ?clomp-clomp? of feet trodding fallen snow had been replaced by a thinner, higher-pitched sound. The sound of cracking ice. It was the last thought Locke had before he plunged swiftly and silently through the unseen frozen lake.
He thrashed against the frigid water, trying to determine which way was up in the near darkness that now surrounded him. He could feel his arms and legs quickly turning to lead, numbed by the absolute chill he was submerged in. He struggled for the surface, but when he finally reached it, there was a thick layer of ice in the way. He beat on it with clenched fists, scratched at with his finger nails, cried out desperately for help. But he was trapped, drowning, dying, and all alone.
***
After an hour spent staring at the ceiling in a futile attempt to go back to sleep, Locke gave up and rolled out of bed. His bedroom was sparse and monochromatic: chalk-white walls with no art or pictures hanging on them, a mattress with no sheets or comforter, pillows without cases on them, an ivory night table, desk, and double-dresser. Clothes he hadn't yet put away were folded neatly atop the dresser, a few books and papers sat in neat piles on his desk, and there was only a simple lamp on his nightstand. He padded for the bathroom, greeted by more of the same shade in his sink, toilet, medicine cabinet, and shower curtain, as he bathed and prepared for a day at work. The only splash of color he saw was when he opened his closet, to an rainbow of dress shirts, arranged by hue, as well as dress pants, sweaters, suits, and ties. He settled on a black suit, cream dress shirt, and red tie. Before he headed for the front door, he glanced out the window, onto his balcony. It was just about time for the sun to start rising, but the clouds in the sky had muted everything to grey and black, with no sign of any other colors to come. With a sigh, he turned away, grabbed his keys, and shouldered his messenger bag. The lock clicked open, the door breezed open and shut, then the deadbolt thudded into place, leaving the apartment in silence once again.
Locke was slogging through an endless field of drifting snow, the wind carving miniature channels that vanished quickly as the winds gusted and let up, as the flakes steadily poured down. It was quiet, peaceful, empty. Nothing but flat whiteness as far as the eye could see, very nearly blending in with the grey skies and horizon he was walking towards. It was...heaven. Only, he felt cold.
He stopped and looked down at his palms. Ungloved, they were now a shade of alabaster, not pale blue. The hand print burned into his right hand was now a pale pink color, brightly standing out against his pallid flesh. He flipped his wrist, taking a gander at the top of his right hand. Still white, still scarred. He shivered, and tried to think of what to do to keep warm. There was no firewood, not a single tree, bush, or blade of grass to be found. He had no winter coat, only his usual bartending outfit: a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, skinny black tie, and fitted trousers of the same hue as the tie. He reached for his back pocket, where he usually kept his gloves, but found nothing in either one. With a sigh, he wrapped his arms across his chest, digging his hands deep into his armpits for what little warmth they could provide him. It was time to keep moving. Where? There.
The wind began to whistle, then sing, then speak, a thin reedy voice that cut sharply through the silence. ?Why...didn't you say it??
?Say what, praytell??
?You...know what I mean.?
?No, I do not.? Locke stopped, despite his best judgment, and craned his head, futilely searching for the voice. "Explain yourself."
?You...can lie to yourself, but not to me. Think...for a moment.?
There was a long pause, before Locke's next words came, barely a breath. ?Fine, mate. You want me to say it now??
?...Yes...?
?All right.? Locke placed his hands on his hips, then opened his mouth to speak again. As soon as he did, the words were lost in a roar of wind. Again, he tried to speak, raising his voice, but a whining gust carried his words where no ears, not even his own, could hear them. Finally, he screamed at the top of his lungs, until his throat felt raw, but the wind would not let him be heard. Exasperated, Locke fell to his knees in the snow.
?I-I did what you asked. Why won't you listen??
?You... need to go there,? the wind said, picking up speed and blowing on his back as if to push him forward. ?And... say it there.?
?Fair enough, mate. I will.? Prodded forward, he trudged through the mounds of snow before him. It was up to his calves, making each step a heavy and awkward affair, especially since he wasn't wearing boots. He grimaced, as he thought of what all that moisture must be doing to his wingtips. They're probably bloody unsalvageable at this point. Lost in his thoughts, he didn't notice the shift in the sound of his footsteps. The staggered ?clomp-clomp? of feet trodding fallen snow had been replaced by a thinner, higher-pitched sound. The sound of cracking ice. It was the last thought Locke had before he plunged swiftly and silently through the unseen frozen lake.
He thrashed against the frigid water, trying to determine which way was up in the near darkness that now surrounded him. He could feel his arms and legs quickly turning to lead, numbed by the absolute chill he was submerged in. He struggled for the surface, but when he finally reached it, there was a thick layer of ice in the way. He beat on it with clenched fists, scratched at with his finger nails, cried out desperately for help. But he was trapped, drowning, dying, and all alone.
***
After an hour spent staring at the ceiling in a futile attempt to go back to sleep, Locke gave up and rolled out of bed. His bedroom was sparse and monochromatic: chalk-white walls with no art or pictures hanging on them, a mattress with no sheets or comforter, pillows without cases on them, an ivory night table, desk, and double-dresser. Clothes he hadn't yet put away were folded neatly atop the dresser, a few books and papers sat in neat piles on his desk, and there was only a simple lamp on his nightstand. He padded for the bathroom, greeted by more of the same shade in his sink, toilet, medicine cabinet, and shower curtain, as he bathed and prepared for a day at work. The only splash of color he saw was when he opened his closet, to an rainbow of dress shirts, arranged by hue, as well as dress pants, sweaters, suits, and ties. He settled on a black suit, cream dress shirt, and red tie. Before he headed for the front door, he glanced out the window, onto his balcony. It was just about time for the sun to start rising, but the clouds in the sky had muted everything to grey and black, with no sign of any other colors to come. With a sigh, he turned away, grabbed his keys, and shouldered his messenger bag. The lock clicked open, the door breezed open and shut, then the deadbolt thudded into place, leaving the apartment in silence once again.