In a Winter Wonderland

Written for my degree so comments hugely appreciated! (858 words)

In Winter Wonderland
It is an un-extraordinary night. Sure the winds are bitter and the angry frost is laid in wait for the dawn, but such elements are nothing unusual for a Welsh December. Consequently the locals are undeterred from pouring into Winter Wonderland. A sea of bobble hats and scarves and people so wrapped up that they look like walking marshmallows forms around me. Winter attire manages to make everyone look the same. This is going to make my job of finding her in this crowd much harder. It is lucky then, that she walks straight past me. Buried beneath hundreds of layers, I barely recognise her. I can tell it is the right person however, from the way that she walks with such purpose among these ambling groups and the familiar scent she exudes as she rushes past. I leave a little distance before I start to follow.

She appears not to notice the world around her as she walks. The sweet smells- candyfloss, candy-nuts, candy-canes- that decorate children’s sticky fingers are lost on her. As too are the warming scents of coffee and hot chocolate that permeate the air, emanating from brightly coloured, cardboard cups clutched close to the bodies of adults. She has not enjoyed these sensations for a year now. She has hesitated. Does this mean that there’s enough time for me to fix the caffeine craving these aromas have forced upon me? No, must concentrate. Besides, she is merely changing course, choosing to walk over a pile of browning leaves which rustle sharply as we walk over them, away from the main promenade of the Wonderland. I should have known. While sharp, burning coffee may be my comfort, dead leaves are hers. One of her quirks. Maybe there is a sense of solidarity of sharing a name that is of their species. Lily. A flower that represents the death of the very leaves with whom she feels at peace.

Snap! My foot catches a hidden twig, breaking it in two. She must have heard me because her pace quickens and her hand reaches to her pocket. I think I know what her fingers, topped with nails that, once perfectly filed, are now bitten to the bone, are reaching for. I can sense her fear and now I feel almost like a predator observing my next meal. Is this how..?

We are on the outskirts of the park now. Even the Ferris wheel that dominates these grounds and the city’s Christmas skyline seems distant. The excited squeals and shouts of the children and students and adults that inhabit it die out by the time we reach here, alienating the two of us from their world. Is this how she always feels?

She has come to a stop by a darkened corner, marked by a single tree. I stand back and wait in the shadows and watch her. I need not get any closer. From the way that she softly raises a hand to her bowed head I know that she is crying, silently. There will be no good time to approach her, but it has to be done eventually. Slowly I walk up and place a hand on her shoulder. Even from the short time that my hand lays there, I can feel the tensions in her muscles. But then she turns, sharply, shocked, and dislodges it.

“What are you doing here?” Her tone is accusing; an attempt to be forceful?
“Why do you think?” My reply renders her speechless. We pause, our eyes meeting. “You really thought I’d let you do this on your own?”
She shakes her head. Her voice is almost a whisper as it reaches for my hand. It is enough to say what she is thinking.
“Let’s do this.” I wrap my arms around her. She flinches a little as I do so but it is to be expected. But she soon submits herself to me. Relaxed. I am a different man to the one who approached her here exactly 365 days ago. A man who hurt her, hit her, raped her. A man who left a part of Lily to die in the dirt.

Slowly she reaches into her pocket and reveals the items she has been involuntarily attached to for the past year. A letter to her the attacker that she couldn’t send, his identity still unknown. The bloodied necklace he had used to keep her still. The pepper spray she reaches for every time she feels she is in danger. Cupped in her upturned hand, the scar on her wrist, a knife wound, is given a rare unveiling. Once red raw, it is fading now. She hesitates again. I squeeze her tight and that seems to be enough to remind her that she can let go of all of this now. The items fall into the dirt that lies beneath the tree. We break loose, and kick dirt and leaves over them to form a makeshift graveyard. Then she finally breaks into a smile that I know is unforced for the first time since that night. There is still some way to go, that scar will never fade completely. But for now we walk hand in hand, towards the coffee and the candyfloss of Winter Wonderland, where we disappear, at last, among the crowds.