I woke to coldness, despite the light blanket in which I had slept, cocooned inside its protection. The house was almost completely silent, just the opposite of how my mother kept her house. I was sure that my father would have preferred the house be filled with sound, but my grandfather was sick and treasured silence. My grandmother often complimented me on how quiet I was whenever we were at her work, or whenever my grandfather was around.

Except for the silence, the house was exactly like father preferred, cold and bright. A vent hummed from its place on the floor against the wall and a chill wind blew outside, as if seeking desperately to dispel the one source of warmth amidst a frozen world. The drapes moved slightly, like ghostly shrouds. The window panes were frosted, obscuring what might wait outside.

I sighed, and levered myself up, grunting as I kept the red afghan blanket wrapped tightly about my shoulders. With one hand clenching the blanket around my neck, I used the other to straighten up my bed. I always laid on top of the covers so that in the mornings, I could simply tidy the bed up quickly and neatly. I inspected the edges, ensuring they were tightly tucked beneath the mattress, and adjusted the pillows, so that the bed could pass any inspection before moving toward the vent.

I allowed the blanket to billow out, the warm air rushing upwards, only to be trapped beneath the blanket. Then I sat down upon the vent and pulled the red blanket over my head. After that, I tugged the shirt tail outwards and bent my legs so that I could pull them underneath the shirt.

Then I leaned my face forward until I could stare down at the vent and feel the up-rushing warmth upon my cheeks. I peered into the depths from which the heat was being blown, but couldn't see anything in the darkness. I just sat there, content for the moment.

After a few minutes, I pushed myself erect and dressed quickly after neatly folding the blanket. I reluctantly left his room and walked down the bright hallway, glancing at the flickering light coming from the living room. My steps faltered for a moment, but gathering my courage, I moved forward again after only the briefest of hesitations. My hands were clenched behind me and my heart beat just a little faster.

Ignoring the goosebumps that had risen on my skin, I entered the living room and glanced at the television, although I didn’t really pay attention to what was on. The black and white television was turned all the way down and the words Roe V. Wade and 7-2 were all I caught as he passed the television. Considering the station had just started broadcasting not long before I woke up, it had to be something important since it had already been brought up in the morning news segment.

However, I was more interested in watching the fireplace. If I was allowed to do so, I would have sat and stared at the flames for hours. The flickering flames glowed a gentle yellow and orange, hinting at the warmth closeness to it could provide. The embers burned as if from an inner source of heat, as if they were willing themselves to survive.

Then, as if they were spirits so inflamed with hatred that they wished the world to burn with them, expended themselves to bring a finger of destruction to that which was around them. The crackling of the fire and the embers was like the breaking of bones, each one a piece of life slowly stripped away as it broke the silence of the house.

Looking into the flames, I remembered those times when my father had changed the flames from yellow and orange to red, blue, or purple with but a magician's gesture, casually splashing dust into the flames, which eagerly devoured the new life offered unto it. I would have loved to use the dust, but my father said that he was the only one who could use them.

A lone shard of gold seemed untouched in the fire, as if refusing to die or submit to the flames. However, as I watched, it slowly blackened before brightening as it caught fire and spread the flames that would consume all that was near it. Hearing my father moving in the kitchen, I ignored the dying fire and started moving again. Although not as bad as Mondays, Tuesdays were almost as bad since that meant my father still had most of the week to work.

I opened the back door and silently wished that one day my father would replace the lightbulb on the back porch. I was sure that if he had to come outside, the bulb would have already been replaced. I shivered as the frigid air hit me. Then, hugging my arms around my thin frame, I moved toward where the dogs' bowls would be.

I wanted to mutter to myself, but I was afraid my father would overhear me. Instead, I took an angry look at the clouds that were obscuring the moonlight, which left me entirely dependent on the sliver of light coming from the kitchen window to see. I stumbled, arms flailing slightly to keep my balance, while my fingers were already growing numb.

I reached down and felt around timidly, finally finding the first bowl. Feeling the ice covering the frozen water, I tried to break it, but found it too thick. Picking it up, I carried it to the water spigot. After turning it on, I held the bowl underneath the spigot and allowed the water to flow over it. My teeth chattered, clicking together so loudly that I worried my father would come outside and tell me to be quiet.

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As for my fingers, they were already numb as the water and ice mixed. I held it there for a few more moments, just long enough to make breaking the ice possible. After doing so, I refilled the water bowl and then repeated the process with the other water bowls. By this time, I was silently muttering to myself about the hunting dogs, about the cold, and everything else, but never about my father.

I continued to work in the darkness, wishing that my father would allow me to hammer the ice, but knowing that he would not let me. His excuse was that it might disturb the neighbors. I grimly finished the first task of filling the water bowls and then tiptoed to the shed, hoping that I wouldn’t step in any of the presents the hunting dogs had left.

I fumbled at the door to the shed with fingers that felt dead. The actual act of opening the door was a relief. I felt around in the darkness, searching inside for the dog food bag. I then struggled to lift the bag which weighed almost as much as I did.

Staggering outside, I carried the bag to the porch, trying not to appear as if I had noticed that my father was watching me silently from the window, coincidentally blocking some of the remaining light. I gritted my teeth together, trying to stop the clicking and the shivering as I poured the dog food into the bowls.

The dogs crowded up, trying to get the food even as it left the bag. One of the dogs almost knocked him over. Grimly, I continued pouring the dog food into each bowl until I was finished. Then I returned the bag of dog food to the shed before seeking warmth and refuge within the cold dark house.

I paused just before entering the house, my eyes now somewhat adjusted to the absence of light. Crystal clear spears of ice hung from the overhanging roof like miniature swords of Damocles, waiting to be painted red with the blood of those who passed beneath. I could easily imagine breaking a large icicle off, a weapon to protect myself in the night. I knew that it would steal the little bit of warmth left in me, but it would be worth it if I could kill my enemies. I shivered again, only this time not from the cold air.

My father let me pass without a word as I went to the bathroom to clean my hands, the warm water bringing tears to my eyes. I cleaned his hands thoroughly, making sure that the dirt under my nails was extracted, and that my fingernails were not too long. Nodding to myself, I looked in the mirror and examined the small boy I saw looking back at me.

Dark rings of worry almost made it seem like he had black eyes. His long dark thin hair was combed neatly with but one exception, which I flattened hastily. I didn’t want to give my father any reason to touch a single hair on my head. My mother loved my hair, as did the ladies who cut my hair.

They were always commenting on how I had a natural curl that any girl would love to have. They told me they wished their own hair would curl up at the shoulders like his own. Of course, I saw them only rarely, mostly because my father always forgot to take me since he was always busy doing something. Hence the length of his hair.

I blinked furiously for a moment, telling myself it was only a speck of dust, or the cold, but knowing that the tears I fought back were not from these things. I straightened my back and raised my chin, my teeth clenched together and my eyes narrowing. I then left the safety of the bathroom and entered the darkened hallway before returning once again to my bedroom.

Soon, my grandmother would leave the main house and come pick me up from the guest house. Then she would drop me off at daycare, who would take me to school. After that, my grandmother would come and pick me up again. Hopefully, she would take me to Burger King after school. I needed a new gold crown since my father had used my old one as kindling for the fire.

I wondered what my sister was doing. She might not be going to be eating at Burger King later since our mother didn’t believe in wasting money by eating out, but at least she wasn’t having to repeat a year. My father hadn’t been the best at getting me to school after the divorce, and since my grandfather was sick, my grandmother was often busy.

That might also be the reason why no one noticed my ear infections. At first, my father had simply told me to stop being a crybaby and suck it up. Other times he accused me of making it up for attention. Eventually, my grandmother noticed something when she realized I couldn’t hear what she was saying.

At least my father wasn’t mad at me after he found out. The teachers at the academy had even suggested I take an intelligence test. They had suspected I was one of those special kids. When the results of my intelligence test came out, though, my dad had told me how proud he was of me. It made me feel warm inside, at least for a few days.

Of course, that didn’t matter. I still had to repeat first grade. Of course, he told everyone it was because of all my visits to the hospital. In fact, many mornings, my father just hadn’t wanted to get up and take me to school. Instead, I would stay at home and watch television, swim in the pool, or explore the woods.

For all of their differences, my parents were similar in some ways. They both left me alone most of the time. Every other weekend when I visited my mother, she would be working most of the time, leaving my sister in charge. Considering that, I bet my sister was waiting for the school bus by herself. She was probably heating up a piece of bologna on the stove.

The thought of her making me a piece warmed my heart for a moment as I gently shut my bedroom door before moving toward the vent. This time, I just sat on top of it, not wanting to stretch my shirt and risk my father's anger. I bowed my head as if in prayer, closed my eyes, and enjoyed the warmth of the air on my face. Sighing, I let my thoughts drift. My thoughts were like smoke, drifting in the wind, carried to and fro, without direction, wondering where the future would take me.