Every stem.
Every petal.
A hand was holding mine. I could feel the dryness of their skin.
But I was too cold to know if they were as freezing as me or if their warmth couldn’t soothe my chill.
On the other side, an arm was looped through mine. I felt fabric instead of skin. Thick, stiff, uncomfortable material.
And there were words—spoken by a man, in an attempt to fill my ears.
But I heard nothing he said.
I wanted him to be quiet.
I wanted … to forget.
I wanted the hand and the arm off me.
I wanted out of my skin.
I wanted out of this body.
I wanted to stop feeling so cold.
I pulled my fingers away from the hand that held them and wiggled my arm free.
I was on my own.
Alone.
Still cold.
Still unbelievably numb.
My legs were loose. Unstable. The earth was moving, and so was I.
My knees hit the grass.
I felt nothing.
There was a gasp, followed by, “Oh, honey,” that didn’t come from me.
Hands were suddenly on my shoulder. Under my armpits. On my back.
I waved them away. “Leave me alone.” And when that didn’t make the hands retreat, I added, “Don’t touch me.”
I couldn’t hear myself.
I couldn’t remember the words I’d just spoken.
I didn’t care if there was a single set of eyes on me.
I was so cold.
The grass stuck to my palms as I lifted my hands and lowered them, inching forward, the pointy toes of my heels pushing against the mud.
The murmuring around me sounded like raindrops hitting a windshield.
