She no longer felt cold. Indeed, if she could have, she would have slipped out of her nightdress, baring her burning skin to the gentle caress of the snow.
But only her hands moved, her arms long since numbed.
She slurred his name.
Then spelt it out carefully in the snow.
Headlights flashed along the drive – a car door slammed. Help at last.
“Here…” she whimpered.
Footsteps approached, halted.
Slowly, thoroughly, thoughtfully, snow was scuffed, then smoothed over the name.
“Dogged little cow, aren’t you?” muttered Allan, as thick flakes obliterated his retreating footprints.
Such a cold, cold heart…
Rochelle leads the Friday Fictioneers into December, with all that that entails. Still, it’s got to be better than November… If you have a 100 word story in response to the prompt… join us! Thanks again, Rochelle.