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Winter is the only time I actually feel melancholic. Which is weird. Because guys – guys do not feel melancholic. At all. It's not manly. But I do. This is why I'm sitting on my bed, wrapped up tightly in warm blankets.
It's cold outside. Snowing. Little pretty snowflakes falling down on the frozen ground. Frozen. Everything is frozen. The bare trees slumbering quietly, the river up the hill near the forest. The ground we walk and stomp on countless of times every day. Dirt. Dust. Snow.
The cemetery is covered in whiteness. Fluffy pure whiteness. Covering the memories, and bodies of people who passed away. Who left gaping holes in others' lives. Mine included. She's laying there. Frozen. Under a few covers of dirt and snow. Like under blankets.
I wrap myself tighter unconsciously. It's warm. But I feel so cold inside. The hole she left, the day the doctor told us, is big. Too big to patch up.
I was barely ten at the time. Too young to understand everything. Too young to lose a person. Too young to say goodbye. Dad rarely talks about her. Which I understand. I don't talk about her too. Because it hurts. So much.
I miss her.
I never thought I would miss someone so badly. It's like a panic attack. Like I can't even breathe. I used to have them. After my mom died. After we left her there in the cold ground. Little pretty snowflakes were falling that time too.
It was beautiful. She was beautiful. Bright smile, sparkling eyes, hair smooth as silk. She walked with grace and confidence. The room seemed to light up by her presence. Dad would smile, meet her halfway and kiss her. She would hug him and laugh, come towards me and ruffle my hair.
I cut it now. Can't stand the memories it used to bring when someone touched my head. Cut it the day she started losing hers after chemo therapies.
She laughed at me. Said we match. We did. At least for a short while. Until her cheeks started hollowing and she couldn't even lift her hands anymore. She became weak. So weak and tired.
I used to lay near her. In the small hospital bed. Reading her stories, or telling them. I talked about Scott. Who was a nerdy little kid like me. About Jackson, who hated my guts and I hated his. That part hasn't changed much even now. About Lydia. I would tell my mom so many stories about her. Her strawberry-blonde hair, her sweet smile and how smart she actually is. Mom would listen quietly, humming responses, falling asleep when tired, resting her small bony hands on her stomach.
I loved when she was sleeping. She looked peaceful. A shy smile, barely there, would play on her face. I used to watch her at those moments. I wanted to keep on watching her.
Sometimes she was restless. Pain haunting her fragile bones, until she couldn't stand it and screamed in agony. Mrs. McCall used to usher me out, just so I couldn't see her trashing around in that bed. In that bed I spent so much time with my mom. In that bed which smelled of lilacs and vanilla. And her. It smelled of her.
I can't stand that smell now. I choke up on unshed tears and curse the lump in my throat I can never swallow.
The hole is too big. Too big to patch up. I miss her.
Six years later I'm still missing her. Missing so badly my whole body aches. I loved her so much. She was my sun, till the day she burned out. I keep on loving her. I doubt I'll ever stop.
The snow keeps on falling, the same as the time. Never stopping. Relentless. I get up from my bed, leave the blankets behind. I open the window, let the fresh winter breeze in. It's cold.
Snow immediately piles up over the window sill. I brush it away. Wonder, if there is anyone who feels the same way I do. This black and endless melancholy. This ache that burns in my chest. Leaving me hollow and dead inside. I feel tears start to well up in my eyes, and I choke up on the pain. It flares up so suddenly in my chest that I gasp, stumble and scratch at the wall.
I can't breathe.
The static noise in my head is deafening. I start to wheeze, feel my lungs constrict. Oxygen. The lack of it. I can't help it. I scream. I scream as loud as I can. Heart thumping so loudly, the blood rushing, making my head buzz. I feel dizzy. I clutch my head and start kicking my legs, hitting the wall over and over again.
The panic doesn't stop. I feel my cheeks getting wet. I'm crying. I'm crying? God, I need air. I scratch at my throat in stupid hopes to get some oxygen in.
I feel hands on my shoulders. I recoil at the touch. I shudder and shake my head, flail my hands around to get away from the contact. I hear a voice, barely, the noise is still deafening. Everything's blurry.
''..tiles!.. Stil.. Come on, son. Stiles!''
I turn my head and see my dad. Blurred out edges of his weary face. He looks panicked. More than I feel myself. He holds a paper bag near my mouth. I grab it, no questions asked. I'm used to this. We're used to this.
I breathe into the bag. Slowly, dragging shallow breaths, feel my lungs burning. It hurts. Everything's white. White like the snow outside.
I breathe. More easily now. And dad's looking at me. He sighs and hangs his head. I only notice now that he's crumpled on the ground, still holding my shoulder. I put the paper bag to the side. Reach my hand out and put it over his.
''I'm okay,'' I say hoarsely. It feels like I haven't spoken in days. ''I'm okay, dad.''
There's a fleeting hurt expression on my dad's face, but it's soon covered because he clutches me to his chest tightly, and holds me. Rocking slightly back and forth, running his hand over my head. The feeling is so familiar that I feel my breath hitch.
I try to calm down. Burrow my head in his neck and breathe him in. Dad's scent is musky, a memory of the after shave, coffee and vanilla. I sniff and wrap my arms around him.
''We are okay, son. Everything's okay.''
I believe him.