Violet Vanguards
You grow to hate the situation you've created for yourself. Becoming such a cliche, you go against the very core of your beliefs. And yet, here you were: Lost in a barren winter wasteland. It was as though someone had scrubbed an eraser against the landscape. It was so blindingly blank that your eyes protested every time they had to recover from a blink.
The falling snow had slowed considerably, but had yet to cease. What was supposed to be a twenty-minute walk had turned into a two-hour walk. The party you were headed towards was probably heating up by now. You could have accompanied your friends in their dingy van, but no! You had to forget your cellphone back at your motel room. You were so confident that you'd be able to navigate your way back without issues, and so eager not to delay your friends any further that you went back alone. In retrospect, a bad idea. Before you knew it, the buildings had vanished and you found yourself in the snow-crested woodland area, without any sense of direction.
The crippling cold clamps down on your extremities and creeps down your veins until you forget what warmth is. Numb and disoriented, you trudge on with hope spiraling from your lips and fading into the night air like your frozen breath.
Breaking the persistent glare came a flicker of purple. You snap your eyes open to find the source of it, but your eyes reduce themselves to squinting at the brightness. The trees were caked in thick, sparkling layers of snow. A gust of wind kicks the powdered-sugar snow into your face. It stings like a burn, and you are almost grateful for the dim illusion of warmth, but then it fades and you are left with only pain.
Another glimpse of purple streaks across your diminished vision. This time you got a better look of it, but you still don't believe what you're seeing. A butterfly. What was a butterfly doing in a snow storm? Out of curiosity and a deranged desperation for anything that wasn't cold and white, you follow it.
More butterflies gradually join your group. You laugh out of crazy relief and immediately regret doing so; your throat and lungs had gone cold and your laugh comes out thin and raspy. But for the moment, you don't care. To you, the butterflies signify life.
The more you progress, the more your mind shifts into welcoming the cold. The dizzying dance of the butterflies among the falling snowflakes mesmerizes you, and entices you to spin and dance alongside them. Seduced by the fluttering of their wings, you feel less and less attached to your mortal self. Your friends, your cellphone, the bar, the motel, the party... does any of that really matter? Following the butterflies has blessed you with a silent inner euphoria that even the distant sound of people screaming your name can't break.
Before you realize it, you have become one of the violet vanguards, bobbing up and down as your wings propel you forward, looking for new playmates amongst the frozen labyrinth of trees.
The rescue team never found you. Not this season, nor shall they ever, even after the snow melts. Some of the rescue team members in attendance, however, are still puzzled to this day, for they swore on their graves that they heard your raspy laughter over the sound of the swirling snow.
~* The End *~
