The tortuous feeling of fear ate hungrily at the young 22 year old’s core. It was agonizing, from the inside out. Slowly, but with purpose, his very own consciousness was killing him. One could see incredible stress that showed in his premature salt and pepper hair, and sunken in charcoal eyes. Each day he became worse for wear than the last, as he felt the serrated, razor-like teeth of disorder dig into his heart, lungs, brain and throat. The dreadful feelings prohibited any attempt at speaking, not that there was anyone to converse with…. maybe just his personal, weighty, gunmetal cloud that endlessly stalked him.

22 years of age and Clifford was sitting with head in trembling hands, in his beat-up silver 2006 volvo; another breakdown. Certainly not his first, and certainly not his last, he rocked slowly in a fruitless effort to calm himself. He let out what he could muster, which happened to be a guttural scream, one of utmost pain. Such an action did not relieve him of his suffering, so he continued to rock and silently sob until the voices lowered, and he wept into sleep.

Clifford awoke in the late afternoon the next day, a typical time for the day after an episode. Looking for a distraction, he checked his phone. Just as with every day that passed his family, namely his mother, Meryl, and sister, Camila, called and texted him repeatedly. December 14th, “Cliffy, are you okay? Please come home everyone is so worried. Just know we love you so so much.” It had been awhile since he’d been with them. Unphased, and his vision becoming out of focus, he sluggishly and weakly opened his car door, and stepped out with lanky legs.

The long night had drained him of any strength that he had. A brisk breeze met his exposed neck, and for a moment he was convinced someone was there, touching him with inhumanly sized, frostbitten fingers. He shuddered at the thought, sending a jolt of red-hot panic through him, aiding, ironically, against the unforgiving winter gale. Regardless, he continued on his path near familiar territory: the evergreen treeline. He paced this byway many times, and felt that he was inexplicably connected to the uncultivated area. Though his voices beckoned him to tread further in, he sensed that something was lurking deep in the snow-covered forest, waiting for him. Because of this paranoia, he kept just to the edge, bending down to inspect the thin layer of alabaster snow.

Staring into the uniform cotton hue acted almost as a portal, and suddenly he was stuck in a trance-like state. He must’ve stared for a good 15 minutes before blinking away the dryness from his eyes. He wondered to himself a finally organized thought, “When did Winter arrive?” knowing it was no use to guess, he rose up, and was met by the sepia eyes of a doe in the distance.

The young doe, real or a hallucination he did not know, caused an uproar with his voices. A few yelled “Go to her go to her go to her go to her go to her…” repeatedly and out of sync, while other, less harsh sounding voices merely suggested “You should go meet that creature. Look at her. See how she calls you with her eyes?” the tone did not matter, as there were so many it became more of a cacophony of screams. Clifford fell to his bony, pasty, now scraped knees and hands, and made a reach for his head, streaking the blood from his palms onto his already grimy hair. The distress ridden boy begged them to be quiet. He told them he’d meet the doe, for the consequences that laid in wait for him in the forest were far less than the consequences had he not given in to the many shrieks of the hell behind his eyes.

Clifford let his frail and damaged hands fall to the freezing ground as the incredible noise inside him came to an abrupt stop. Was he to crawl or meekly rise up from the ground and shuffle? He chose the latter. Up on his feet now he took an unimpressive step. Another. Clear, salty tears rolled effortlessly down his emotionless face as he traipsed through the inexplicably dangerous forest. The best way to describe his gait would be as a walking corpse, slow and sluggish. Without purpose. Despite the overactivity that seemed to always be happening in his head, these zombie-esque movements were absolutely thoughtless, as if he was in autopilot. His eyes were glazed over and his mouth slightly agape, near drooling.

As he shuffled further and further into the woods so did the doe. White tail flicking up playfully as she frolicked through the snow, guiding him on this walk into the abyss. Clifford’s dripping mouth turned at the corners into an open smile, he could see it now, why the voices longed for him to approach her. She was a companion, an ally that he so desperately needed, especially now. Her hazel eyes which looked back at him to ensure he was following, left him feeling a safe sort of way. And besides, the voices had never left him alone for so long.

All of this convinced him to carry on. The fear he had felt before had melted away and now, if anything, he was enjoying this experience with his newfound friend. He had been so captivated with her that he failed to notice the snow begin. It was coming down in slow, thick globules. His knees were shaking, both from the cold and from the prolonged walking which he wasn’t used to. He was ill prepared for the journey he had so spontaneously taken on. Muted green shorts and a tawny long sleeve being all the aid he had against the frigid air.

After what seemed like hours, and maybe it had been as the sun had now disappeared, the deer began to slow down. What was an excited trot had downgraded into a relaxed amble. Clifford’s pace had remained the same, a slow, clamoring hobble. He was getting closer to the creature. He could make out her matted burnt sienna fur,  with areas lacking fur and instead brandishing gray-pink scars. Her ears flitted every so often in response to Clifford stepping on branches and other natural auditory stimulation.

Then she stopped. She sniffed loud enough for Cliff to hear and even see her warm breath fog up in the freezing outside air, and she turned around to face him. He too stopped, snow up to his ankles, discount sneakers soaked. She sat promptly in the white powder, never lifting her gaze off of him. He inched forward to meet this doe. Once more, the slightest step. He was nearly there now, so close. Finally he stood in front of her, breath hitched and showing up in clouds in front of him. Clifford raised his scrawny arm up, preparing to touch her. He leaned into where she laid, and she lifted her head ever so slightly to take in the new, somewhat metallic smell of him.

So close. So, so close. The voices in his head, without saying a word, had increased their activity, as if they were all staring through him, to the point Cliff was wincing. They wanted this too. He made the final move to touch the doe’s head, but instead of making contact he felt nothing. In the few seconds it had taken him to lower his hand the deer had gotten up and sprinted deeper into the woods, leaving nothing but tracks in her path, and never looking back.

He dropped down to his knees for the second time that day, tears leaking silently from his eyes as all of his voices began roaring with laughter. He was shaking both from the frigidity and from the shock of the situation. He had no energy left, he failed to understand how something he had trusted so much, that deer, could betray him in such a fatal way. It was so cold. And not knowing what else to do he let himself fall onto his back into the flake, his thick shirt soaking up the slight melting downfall and his salted tears beginning to gum up.

He laid there until he blacked out. The snow eventually covering all of him. Had someone walked past him they would’ve assumed he was just a few rocks hidden under a blanket of white. Salvation was out of the question, the cold being so extreme even the voices seemed to seek shelter, staying quiet.

He woke up in his car. Another breakdown. Certainly not his first, and certainly not his last. He rubbed his head, and ruffled his own speckled gray hair. Without any recollection of falling asleep, or how upsetting this apparent episode was, he opened his car door and stepped out into the freshly fallen, uniform snow. He reached down to touch the flake, the pure white of it nearly blending into his pristine pale palms. Checking his phone he saw once again a text from his mother. December 15th, “Cliff, we’re going to find you and get you some help hunny, just keep holding on. I love you.”

His mom, Meryl, shakily put her phone down onto the marble counter of her home. Each day she didn’t get a response, or even just a hint Clifford was out there alive somewhere, the bags under her eyes grew more distinguished and dark. She brought her hands to her face and stifled a sob. She had gotten good at that ever since Cliff had deteriorated, some two years ago. It had felt like so much longer, an eternity almost. She composed herself, sighed, and moved to her daughter’s room.

“Hey Camila,” she whispered quietly, sitting on the edge of her 14-year-olds bed. “Sweetie… time for school.” she feigned a slight smile with ease.

“Already..?” Camila turned on her side, hazel eyes still closed.

“I know, I know, you’re tired… but you have to get up. I don’t want you to be late!”

Camila groaned. “Alright, I’m up…” she sat up, stretching the sleep out of her system.

“Sure you are,” Meryl chuckled. “I’m gonna make breakfast, any requests?”

“Hmm…” she paused for a moment, thinking. “Maybe some eggs?”

“You got it Mila, now get ready!”

Camila strolled into the kitchen after putting a violet sweater and black leggings on. It is mainly decorated with white appliances and tile, with the island featuring black marble. The smell of cooked eggs and bacon flooded her nose.

“Smells good Mom!” she grinned.

“Thanks love! I’ll make you a plate.” she turned her back to Camila to meet the pan.

Without warning Camila asked “Any word on Cliff?” with a melancholic, yet hopeful voice.

Meryl sighed audibly, her slight smile turning into a thin line and her eyes turning down. She turned back around and met her daughter's face, handing her her plate.

“No, not yet.”

Not yet. Not yet is what she always said, without fail. Not yet meant it would happen eventually. Not yet meant there was still hope.

“I know he’s out there.” Mila voiced while spooning a forkload of ketchup covered eggs into her mouth.

“Me too…”

The remainder of her breakfast was eaten in silence, the only sounds being the clanking of dishes while Meryl cleaned in the sink. Finally Camila got up to leave for school, and Meryl helped her to put on her somewhat bulky ashy jacket. She slipped on her olive green backpack and made her way to the front door.

“I’ll see you later Mom, love you.”

“Have a good day hun, love you too.”

Their door made a heavy sliding noise on the wood flooring as she opened it, and again when she closed it, letting in a gust of freezing wind.

Meryl went back to cleaning. If anything helped her feel even a little bit better it was keeping her house spotless. The white tile beamed at near blinding levels, and the home always had a chemical cleaner smell about it. She finished up her dishes and dried her raisin-esque hands with the pearly hand towel hanging from her stove handle.

She took a deep breath and closed her powder blue-gray eyes. In… and out. In… and out. She opened them once again and made her way to her room. Every day since Clifford had seemingly disappeared she would take a drive around her small town both looking for and asking strangers and friends alike about Cliff. They never had anything of value to tell her, but regardless she continued. Ideally she wouldn’t have to take such matters into her own hands, but despite alerting the police Clifford’s mental status placed him at less of a priority. Putting on her coffee colored jacket and carob scarf she walked back into the living room/kitchen area, and then in front of the front door. Meryl put on her brave face and swung open the door. The freezing air greeted her exposed, pale face, immediately putting a blushy rose on her cheeks. She was extremely prone to the cold these days. She took the thick walnut gloves out of the jacket pocket she was keeping them in and put them on her already frigid fingers.

Walking down the wooden steps to her driveway she was careful not to fall on the slick ice. She took the frosted keys out of her pocket and unlocked her beige van with the click of a button. Quickly so as to get out of the cold she hopped in her car and started the engine. It purred with ignition and blew a burst chilly, then warm air onto her from the vents. She sat for a moment just taking in the heat, breathing hitched.

Maybe today would be the day.