810 words tonight. I almost didn’t write, so woo on me.
Look here for Parts 1, 2 and 3.
A Walk in the Snow, Part 4
My first thought is: I’m too young for dementia, followed quickly by: But I’m not too young to be hearing things. I grab the phone and shove it into the same pocket with my glove. I leave the glove there because I know if I try to take it out and put it on, it’s going to just plop into the snow, guaranteed.
I stand upright and turn around toward South Street to face who or whatever is walking toward me, even though I know there is no way someone could have come from that direction without me seeing or hearing them.
There is, of course, no one there. The footsteps stopped as I turned.
My mind is playing tricks on me. I don’t like this. It’s happened before and it will happen again, but it’s annoying and also I know my great-grandmother actually had dementia, so there’s a history of it in the family and every time something like this happens it terrifies me a little, because it reminds me that the same fate could await me in my later years.
It’s too cold to be thinking about such things. I put the glove on and resume the trudge up to South Street and, hopefully, a firmer entry back into the world where phantom footsteps do not occur.
You know what happens next.
The footsteps resume behind me, coming from the original direction. For a moment this is oddly reassuring. The reassurance is tossed aide quickly and replaced with annoyance. No fear, no terror, just plain annoyance. I’m moving through the five stages of something. I don’t stop. I don’t look back. I just walk. South Street is only a minute away, less if I continue my imitation of The Little Snow Plow That Could.
The wind abruptly picks up and whips in from the east, blasting my face. It’s cold enough to take my breath away. I pull my chin in and adjust the collar of my jacket up. The wind almost sounds like it’s chuckling. Mocking me. And freezing my ass off.
The gust dies down as suddenly as it started and the air is so still and quiet I realize I have stopped moving.
The footsteps have stopped. Not just mine, all of them. Good.
The collar of my jacket flutters. The wind is picking up again. Probably a fresh storm moving in. I seem to recall hearing that on a radio playing somewhere. Time to get moving and get out of here. I resume my seemingly eternal trek to South Street, ignoring the creepy chuckling sound the wind makes. That’s not true, actually, part of my mind is wondering how the acoustics can produce something that sounds so near to a human voice. Maybe the same thing that makes phantom footsteps.
Stupid access road. Next time I’m sticking to the nicely shoveled sidewalks, even if it adds another kilometer or two to my walk. At least I won’t get home sopping wet from the knees down and wondering if my senior years will feature my mind turning into pudding.
I reach the small hill leading up to South Street and begin my ascent, imagining I’m scaling the peak of some mighty mountain. Not Everest, I’d die about ten times on the way up. But still, a mountain of some sort.
I slip and nearly fall. I shoot out my hands for balance and stop to adjust my grip in the snow. I look up and around, flakes are starting to fall again. Even though the rest of the way is plowed and shoveled, home and hot chocolate feel a long way off.
I take another step and this time my foot lands on an ivisible, ice-covered banana peel. My arms pinwheel fruitlessly, though no doubt it would look hilarious to a passerby, then I land hard on my back. Because I’m on a slope the effect is enhanced and I feel that sick whump as the air is knocked out of me. I lay there on my back, flakes gently landing on my cheeks and melting, then make my first attempt to get back up and slide a bit back down the hill. This would still prove hilarious to a passerby, I’m certain.
I’m not hurt, but the disorientation is making it difficult to focus. The wind switches back to roaring and the gentle snowflakes turn on me, pelting into my face.
This is when the chuckling I hear in the wind starts sounding more like a person and less like a byproduct of acoustics. It sounds like it’s coming from behind my head, which is currently smushed down in the crumpled snow made by my footsteps. I see a shadow fall over me. I’m not sure what to think. It’s too cold to pee my pants, so I hold my bladder tight.
I wait.
