The rooftop

Looking down at the graying metropolis below, I feel the first chill skirt up my spine. . Turning on the sticky, black tar, I start for the door. The central heating units are the only sound to break the silence that blanketed the cold rooftop. Fighting the icy winter, I rush the only door that will bring me back to heated civilization. I reach for the cold handle, turning it with a jerk. Then again. And again. No matter how many times I force the biting steel, it will not give.

Turning slowly, artic fire burns through my body as I take in the scene. I pull the sweater closer to my body, trying to recapture my heat. As I take a frozen accounting of what is around me, I realize there is no escape. The wind picks up and my limbs are assaulted with firry needles that scald the already bitter skin under the protection of my sweater. My blood seems to stiffen to molten ice as even the memory of warmth quickly fades to snow.

Panic of survival takes flight, and I’m mindlessly hurtling my glacial hands at the unmoving door. Praying that I am heard. Knowing that I will not. The icy veins begin to pump the cool rivers once more and my heart turns to ore. Survival ensues and my voice finds life. Screaming like a lost banshee I fling myself to the ledge. Watching people below, willing someone to hear my cries. Not a single eye looks towards the sky. Fighting the terror I search the roof. Once more it gives no quarter.

Now the banshee cries for me.