fragmentation

by k. h. shaan, Issue #1

Content Warning: Graphic Injuries, Blood

it’s frigid. though i suppose it’s nothing new; the air has been permeated with frost for as long as i can remember. i run my hand over the soft wool of the blanket in my lap and feel each perfect stitch under my fingertips. it’s a soft yellow color, knitted by my mother as she sat next to the once roaring hearth that now lies cold and desolate in the corner of the cabin. the blanket looks pale without the warm light of the fire, and i can’t seem to tell whether it has faded with age or if the color left along with her.

she would always hum songs i had no hope of recognizing, but i lay entranced at her feet by the melodies she spun along with her yarn. her third trimester stomach kept it well out of her reach, so she relied on me to delicately feed her a steady stream from the tangled nest that lay in a wicker basket by her creaky old rocking chair. each move, each stitch brought on another creak or whine, the chair seeming to syphonize with her soft voice. the fire crackled and hissed, punctuating her recital. it seemed as if every sound would harmonize with her, each hoping to play their part in a symphony i had never heard before or since. the blanket has long been finished and the symphony has trailed off, only serving to remind me of what is lost. on the bottom right corner, just above the lace border is an embroidered inscription: for my little blossom

it was her nickname for the baby, as none of us could think of anything better. we of course had much more pressing matters on our minds as the winter had started early and left us with barren fields and empty cupboards. so my mother called it her blossom, convinced that with his birth our luck would change.

he succumbed to the cold soon after my mother brought him into the world. she died without holding him, her hair plastered to her face with perspiration. her last words were too faint for me to make out but i thought i heard her call out for her blossom one final time. i was left trembling at her bedside with a thrashing blanket-swaddled mass shrieking in my arms. i laid him upon his mother, but all i could do was watch as he flailed and cried in her increasingly cold arms. i buried her by the garden she used to tend to, which the winter had turned it into a more suitable resting place. the flowers and fruit she had so carefully cultivated were replaced by cold black earth, scorched with frost. i did what i could to return it to it’s former glory but i was not my mother. this much was readily apparent. all i managed was a large stone dragged from the frozen riverbed and hastily carved before the cold took the use of my fingers.

months pass. the ward and i did not get along. with the last of the goats butchered long ago, any hope of milk was laughable. this, coupled with the mere dregs of the last pitiful harvest before the desiccated ground was covered in snow, did not bode well for my new responsibility. i would plead with him to eat what little dried fruit and seeds i could scrounge up. he would have none of it, of course, opting instead to wail at a deafening volume. eventually his wails dropped to a whisper, his face still contorted in a silent caterwaul. i would spend hours ransacking every inch of the cabin, hoping to find even a drop of milk or a crumb of grain. no matter how many times i would rip the cabinets apart their hollowness remained unchanged in the face of my desperation. there were times i thought of slitting my wrists only to put them to his mouth and let him drink his fill. perhaps in death i could be of use to him.

i was not much better off. as the time passed, the winter only grew more settled in its rage, trapping us in the only refuge from the cold for miles. slowly, i notice the hunger. it is enough to stave off at first, enough that i can satiate myself with a few cups of water from melted snow. but it does not stay quiet for long. my stomach growls and shrieks as i try to drown it with as much water as i can take. but my stomach is not alone in its crusade. my hair thins and my hands start to shake. i could ignore it for as long as i pleased, but my hunger had started to eat away at my very existence. but i knew my own hunger was incomparable to my brothers. i could not bear to watch as his whispers faded to silence, his throat torn from his cries, his lips parched and cracked. i instead did what little i could, tearing the cabin apart piece by piece and plank by plank, praying for something to materialize. perhaps a family of squirrels had died in the walls, perhaps an abandoned birds nest still held an egg or two. anything. the floorboards near the old rocking chair were the last to go.

i could not seem to bring myself to rip apart what few memories gave me solace, but that luxury had long been taken from me. i slowly dropped to my knees, the cold and malnutrition sapping my dwindling strength, my already cracked fingers bleeding profusely as i pryed up the rotting wood. it did not come up without it’s price, taking three of my fingernails with it. i shakily dropped the plank as i fell on my side, mocked once more by the emptiness beneath. my breath came out in puffs of condensation, shallow and rapid from even that much exertion. that was it. a last chance at survival had given way to the final verdict.

i figured in these last moments neither of us wished to be alone, my only motivation as i tried to get to my feet. but there it was. out of the very corner of my eye, tucked neatly far behind where the baseboards ended, nearly inside the wall. something stood out amongst the cobwebs and accumulated dust, a color that had no earthly business being in this wasteland. with new resolution i reached as far as my arm would go, past the support beams and long abandoned spiderwebs, the winter had left my arms bony and slender, allowing me to contort much farther than any person should. my shoulder pressed against the inside of the floorboards, and my exposed ribcage lay against the freezing ground. every joint in my body and every cell in my anatomy strained reaching for the last sliver of hope i had left.

just when it felt like my flesh was about to tear, i felt the cool skin of a leather-bound book brush against the tips of my fingers. i slowly removed my now scraped and bleeding arm out of the hollow, at the end of which was a neatly bound and somewhat faded but vibrant as ever red leather journal. it was held together by a rough woven twine, unmistakebly the same kind my father would use all those years ago. it bound our firewood, stitched our clothes, and tied our laces. my mother had razed the cabin of every trace of him citing her hatred for anything that remotely connected us to him. it took quite a while, and at times it seemed like it was only that twine which held our family together. i hadn’t seen it in years. i unwrapped the book only for it to fall open in my hands, to a page near the beginning. i quickly stopped the enclosed objects from slipping out, clutching them close to my chest. upon further inspection, i could identify a faded film photograph and something else i did not quite recognize. on the left side of the page was my fathers messy handwriting, lines and passages surrounding various diagrams. it detailed the genus and species of various plants, most of which i did not recognize. some of the basic entries were plants i knew, crops and grain we grew before the land became barren. the others had no such purpose listed, only their color, scent, and a surprisingly detailed sketch. they were like no plants i had ever seen. instead of the monochrome thistles of wheat i knew, they had delicate stems and brushstrokes of colors highlighting the swooping curves. some had tall blooming whorls, crescendoing out into small cups of nectar. others had petals upon petals, overlapping over and over to form a blossom. i could not help but wonder if these were merely drawings, a hopeful fiction my father had conjured up to save himself from the winter’s damnation. this was quickly dispelled as i examined the enclosed objects. the photograph was of my mother; or a version of her i suppose. she did not have the lines of worry scoring her forehead, or the dark bags that had settled under her eyes. she was… happy. even in the faded old film photo her eyes had a shine to them, coalesced into a glow with the toothy smile on her face. behind her ear, tucked neatly amongst the locks of hair was identical to the other enclosed object. it had long since dried out, pressed neatly into a diagram of itself. it was a deep crimson, almost black. the center was a cluster of velvety petals, with spirals of them stacked upon one another surrounding it. the pattern seemed to disappear into itself, finding a new place to start and end every single time. it had not lost an atom of detail, its hypnotizing pattern preserved in between the sheets of yellowing paper. it seemed weightless in my hand, yet i could not fathom an object of such beauty being confined to the bounds of my palm. i looked back at the photo, the same flower brushing softly against my mothers cheek. behind the photo was an inscription that had long since been rubbed off, but i knew exactly what it said. my blossom.

a faint cry roused me from my thoughts. the journal fell from my hands as i scrambled to the little woven basket my brother lay in. the very same basket from all those years ago, the yarn now tangled and forgotten under the blankets i had laid for him. his face was pale, and the cries that once echoed around the cabin were replaced with a labored gurgle. scooping him up as gently as my shaking arms could, i pressed him against my chest for whatever sliver of warmth i could provide, while i frantically searched for something, anything i could give him. the flower. it had to be something. it had to do something. i crawled over to the dropped specimen and scooped it into my hand, crushing it with what little strength remained in my withering body. i turned my head away as the once eternalized beauty crumbled to dust under my fingers. i could not look at what i had to destroy, could not bear to see the only shred of life for miles around meet its end within my fist. i had not time to mourn however, with the baby’s cries growing fainter and my own body on the verge of collapse. i held my fist to his mouth, praying that i could trickle just a few crumbs of sustenance past his lips. but his expression had turned far too peaceful. once more i let the mangled remains of the flower fall across his mouth, praying with every fiber of my being that he would resume the cries that had plagued me for so long. but like so many others, my prayers fell on deaf ears. the contorted wail that normally resided on his face was replaced with an eerie calm as i felt his body slow then stiffen. my head fell back and my shoulders went slack, barely managing to keep him in my arms. there was no solace from above though, nothing up there but rotting wooden beams and seemingly endless darkness. but i still dared not to look down, hoping to tilt my head back far enough to stop the precious water from streaming down my face.

it wasn’t long before the cabin was once again deafeningly silent, save for the howling wind. It screeched and clawed at every crack it could find in the dilapidated cabin, like some sort of beast intent on my demise. it stalked outside, back and forth around the perimeter, waiting patiently until I fell victim to it’s icy grip as well. it seemed to call out to me, whispers carried ever so faintly alongside the zephyr. there was a sort of comfort out there, a comfort that nothing in this cabin could provide me any longer. the cold offered relief, a respite from my pitiful damnation. perhaps i could be reunited with everything it has taken from me. but i could not seem to move myself from my position, my knees nearly frozen to the floor. his body grew colder and colder in my arms, no matter how close i held him to me. my own waning warmth could do nothing for him; in fact no part of me could do anything for him now. the whispers seem to grow louder the longer i stayed limp on the floor, soothing my anguish, offering to quell my agony in the wintery bliss that lay beyond the cabin walls. i tear myself free from the floor’s hold, shakily rising to my feet. though my muscles feel as if they are ripping themselves off of my bones i dare not make the slightest movement to jostle the baby. i gingerly make every move necessary, as if the smallest disturbance will wake him, as if he is simply sleeping without a care. however, each step i take threatens my collapse as i stumble towards the door.

it seems like an eternity of one laborious footfall after another before i finally raise my head to look at the scarred plank of wood that lay between me and my freedom. the entrance has long since been firmly nailed shut, eternally struggling to keep the elements at bay. i extend my unencumbered hand and scratch at the various fixtures scattered across the door frame. the cold metal remains unchanged save for my blood smearing across and staining the wood. i step back and breathe deep, letting the air stab my lungs with its frosty needles. it escapes in a swirling puff that quickly dissipates back into the air. i fall, letting my body slam against the door with an audible crack. weathered and brittle from the unrelenting winter, it shatters under my weight, but i cannot seem to attribute the sound to the door or my now mangled shoulder. my injury is quickly tended to by the sheet of snow i fall into. it sucks the heat from my very bones, leaving me indistinguishable from my surroundings. but not yet. not yet. the cold, or perhaps shock has managed to numb me from the sensation of my fragmented bones grinding against each other as i rise to my feet once more, and perhaps the final time. raising myself up, i feel the wind unleash its wrath upon my face. taking what little feeling i had left and leaving me with pins and needles dancing across my cheeks. my head falls, to look at the baby is what i tell myself, but more likely i simply cannot support its weight anymore. he looks as peaceful as ever, unbothered by the cold. the rosy hue of his cheeks is gone, swept away by the wind, and in its place is a dull sheen matching his glassy eyes. i run my hand across his forehead, sweeping the few wispy hairs he had managed to grow off his face. but even in this tundra and bone chilling wind, the only thing i feel is the bite of iciness radiating from his flesh.

my odyssey through the permafrost continues, the path obscured both by the storm and the black spots that now wander through my vision. my newly lame arm swings with every step, the other wrapped around my brother, nestling him as close to me as i possibly can. one after the other my feet drag through the heavy snow, accumulated to well above my knee. my path is carved through the terrain, and the echoes of my footsteps etched into the very earth. it isn’t long before my knee slams against something much too solid and unforgiving to be snow or ice. even buried under a mountain of snow i know exactly what rests here, or rather who. i sweep the layers of precipitation off the small boulder i had used to mark her grave, revealing the roughly carved letters. mom. i sway slowly and fall. for the last time, i know it. my knees hit the ground under me with another audible crack. shakily, i lift the bundled blanket, the soft yellow now thoroughly stained with red, and lay it upon the stone, as if in offering to some twisted god. but i cannot stop just yet. i cannot leave him in the cold with nothing but my broken corpse. not when his mothers embrace is so near. i claw at the frozen earth beneath, the jagged crystals of ice tearing at my skin. once the earth deems my offering worthy, the steaming blood melts the snow and gives way to the soil. it is just as hard and barren as i remember, not fit for anything to call home other than the veins of ice that have dug into the earth. one after the other i tear fistfuls of dirt from the ground, leaving my remaining fingernails embedded in the soil. but it craves more. no matter how much i give, it never seems enough to satiate its hunger. the tips of my fingers wear away with every scratch i make against the earth, letting me feel the icy air against my exposed bone. but still it remains ravenous, tearing the flesh from my arms and letting a new wave of crimson quench its thirst. it seems as if i have nothing left to give just before a flash of color reveals itself, a swatch of cloth. my mothers dress. i had buried her in the only one she had preserved from the mothballs, a faded yellow gown. it had the same ethereal hue as the blanket that lay on the gravestone above, as if the remnants of the sunlight that had once graced it clung for dear life.

i didn’t need to dig any deeper. my arms shake, now barely able to support their own weight, and raise themselves up to retrieve the offering i had left upon the stone. i lower him down to reunite mother and son, finally allowing them rest. my fingers had long since stopped responding to my commands, the hand of my mangled arm still frozen in a clenched fist i cannot seem to release. i use what little feeling i had left to sweep the earth back into its rightful place. it still has just a bit of warmth from the flesh it had taken from me, allowing me to mold it into a solid ground once more. nothing remains of my work other than a slightly warm patch of bare earth amongst the layers of snow. done. finally done. as if knowing my purpose had been fulfilled, i lose all control and feel my body fall forward. my head slams against the stone with a final resounding crack and leaves its smeared crimson mark on the rock. with a final breath i turn my broken body, allowing my back to rest against the stone. its cold, a feeling that manages to break through the numbness encasing my body. with each labored beat, the flow of blood goes from torrential to a rhythmic dripping.

the snow around me has been permeated with my filth, and i can see the flakes of ice fall from the heavens only to disintegrate in the face of my disgrace. it blooms out around me, following the crystalline patterns replacing the purest white with the deepest crimson. finally free from my reign, my limbs refuse my commands, opting instead to settle into their final rest. as each muscle relaxed, the shattered bones in my arm are released from their post, forcing my clenched fist to finally loosen its grip. fractured petals and granules spill from my palm. had i not known what it was, i might have mistaken it for dust. i watch as it mixes with my blood and trickles off my fingertips, seeping into the earth. nothing happened for quite a while after that. or nothing out of the ordinary, i suppose. my heart stopped in a timely manner, my body freezing in place, though from the cold or the from the rigor i cannot seem to determine. months after my demise it is apparent that the winter was not everlasting, and with the new age comes my reckoning. the flesh peels from my bones, helped every so often by animals that have returned to their once forgotten homes. a wolf with a dirty brown coat, changing for the seasons, no doubt, is the first to lay his claim. he nuzzles around my neck, where the scent of blood has been released from the frost that bound it. his nose is wet and cold, though in a way i am not entirely familiar with. whiskers scratch against my skin as muscle and sinew tear against his teeth. he enjoys his meal, wasting nothing before licking my exposed ribcage clean and taking his leave. time passes. the next is a sparrow, gliding down from branches way above into the rats nest i used to call hair. she takes her time, combing through the locks until she finds the perfect one to pluck from my scalp. she makes the journey a few times, picking only the finest strands to build her nest. gracing my face with a gentle gust, she returns to her young now safely ensconced in their newly constructed home. time passes. the following visitor is a family of mice. they scout the area thoroughly before settling into my ribcage. it is not long before the squealing of little pink pups radiates out of my chest. they scamper in between the remains of my abdomen, gnawing at my calcified bones. time passes. there is a final settler that now calls my body home. though i cannot fathom how much time has passed, there is no doubt in my mind of what pokes up from beneath the earth, clawing it’s way to the light. just as i begin to crumble, the smallest red blossoms have just began to bloom.