Chapter 4 One Week Later
1609 Words
Morgan's PoV
It had been a week since I battled through the storm and returned the bodies to the authorities at Evergreen. Melanie wasn't in town and no one wanted to take the dog, so Dingus remained with me.
I was rapidly coming to understand why he was given his name, but the dog was growing on me. I didn't feel quite so alone anymore and the bonus of having a dog for a companion and not a person?
They wouldn't betray you. Even in death.
The snowflakes twirled in the air like tiny dancers, each one completing countless graceful pirouettes before settling upon the cobblestone streets of Evergreen.
The town was aglow with twinkling fairy lights that drape from every storefront and lamppost, casting a warm, golden hue against the winter's chill.
Laughter and chatter filled the spaces where icy breaths mingled and dispersed and the scent of pine and spiced apple weaves through the atmosphere, a tangible reminder of the season's joy. It's as if the entire town pulses with a collective heartbeat - thump-thump, thump-thump - racing towards Christmas.
I tread through this almost sickening postcard of merriment with a bitterness clutching at my heart to the steady rhythm of my own heartbeat and the sound of my boots crunching on crusted snow.
The townspeople, wrapped in their festive scarves and smiles, are a glaring contrast to the weight I carry within. I am Morgan Foster, a solitary being amongst this sea of seasonal joy.
Their excitement is nothing but a mocking orchestra, a reminder of what I've lost and what I dare not seek again.
"Morning, Morgan!" Mr. Simmons, the baker, greets me, his voice booming across the street.
"Morning," I grunt back, without stopping.
My voice feels abrasive, even to my own ears- gravel against the smooth glass of their cheerfulness. I don't miss the way his smile falters, or how he turns back to his eager customers- the easy ones, the human ones.
My eyes, a piercing green reminiscent of the forest depths I call home, sweep over the town square.
There's an ache within me that I can't seem to soothe no matter how hard I try, clawing its way up my throat.
A yearning for connection, a hunger for a pack- a true pack, not just brief exchanges weighted down by history and betrayal and the loss it conjuries. But I armor myself in my stoicism, a shield against the world that has shown me time and again that it's safer to be alone.
As I pass the toy store, children press their noses against the display window, eyes wide with wonder at the miniature train chugging along its merry track. Their innocent delight is starkly foreign to me; I can't remember the last time something filled me with such uncomplicated happiness.
"Hey, watch where you're going!" I snap when someone nearly collides with me, caught up in the holiday frenzy. They mutter an apology, scurrying away like a startled rabbit, and I'm left once more to my solitude amidst the crowd.
"Morgan, won't you join us for the lighting of the tree tonight?" Mrs. Henderson asks, her invitation floating over from her perch by the wreath-covered town hall.
"Can't," I reply shortly. "Things to do." The truth is, I have no desire to stand shoulder to shoulder with these people who know nothing of the beast that lies beneath my skin.
"Suit yourself," she says, a little less brightly this time. Another invitation declined, another bridge burned.
With every step, the distance between me and the rest of Evergreen grows wider, even as they reach out with hands I dare not grasp. It's a dance as old as time, yet no less painful with each passing year. To them, I am a mystery, a shadow on the outskirts of their joy. And perhaps, that's all I'm meant to be.
The festive displays in the shop windows bring no warmth or suffocating joy to my chest. Instead, there's a coldness that settles deeper into my bones, a constant companion reminding me that for creatures like me, companionship is a luxury that comes with a price too steep to pay.
The wind carries the faint sound of carolers, their voices rising and falling like the undulating hills beyond the town that give way to the unforgiving peaks. The melody haunts me, a ghostly whisper of what could be but never will. I turn my back on the town square, on the laughter and light, and retreat into the shadows where I belong.
"Happy holidays," I murmur to no one, the words bitter on my tongue.
"Morgan! Will you be needing extra firewood this month?" Mr. Henderson calls out from his carpentry store. He was a figure as sturdy as the logs and timber that he sold on the side.
"Same as always," I grunt, pushing past the threshold. The bell jingles above the door, a sound that seems to mock the finality of my solitude. "No need to fuss."
"Alright, but if the snowstorm hits like they're predicting, you'll want to be prepared." His concern is genuine, but it grates against my nerves- another reminder that I'm a creature apart, reliant on the same people I keep at arm's length.
"Thanks," I reply, already retreating. The store smells of pine and sawdust, a scent that should offer comfort, but it feels so out of place inside these walls.
As I trudge through the town, stopping briefly to collect supplies, I pass by the local diner, where the warmth and chatter seep out onto the street. Inside, people share meals and stories, weaving threads of connection that I've long since cut. My stomach twists- not from hunger, but from a craving for companionship that remains unfulfilled.
"Morgan! Merry Christmas!" The cheerful greeting slices through my reverie, and I turn to see Mrs. Caldwell waving from her bakery, a tray of steaming pies displayed enticingly in the window.
"Nothing merry about it," I mutter under my breath, but force a tight smile anyway, unwilling to tarnish her festive spirit with my presence. I manage a curt nod before moving on, leaving behind the sweet aroma of cinnamon and nutmeg.
My hands clench into fists as I walk, the list of supplies etched into my mind. I do not need a piece of paper; every item is memorized, a necessary routine that repeats every winter and keeps me stocked up with anything I might need to last me over the harsh winter months.
"Are you sure you don't need anything else, Morgan?" Mrs. Lin, the grocer, asks as she bags my provisions. Her gaze holds a flicker of something like sympathy- or perhaps pity. Either way, it's unwanted.
"I'm good," I assure her, my voice clipped. The exchange is brief, efficient, devoid of the warmth that seems to flow so freely between others.
"Take care then," she says softly, and there's an ache in her words that mirrors my own. But I cannot allow it to touch me, for fear that it might shatter the fragile peace I've cobbled together in my isolation.
"Always do," I respond gruffly, exiting the shop with my supplies in hand.
"Looks like a storm's brewing over the peaks," Mayor Whitaker says to the crowd gathered around him that I try to squeeze through as I pass him on the final stop that I need to make, "Make sure to stock up on supplies, everyone."
My lips press into a thin line at his warning. This storm that was coming could mean days, even weeks, of isolation. My cabin in the treacherous heights offers solitude and safety but will be completely cut off from civilization until the storm passes and the snow is finally dug out.
"That means you as well Morgan!" He yelled pointedly above the heads of the crowd.
"Will do, Mayor," I reply gruffly, aware of the concerned glances thrown my way by the townspeople.
"Morgan, if you need anything..." His voice trails off as the faces of the townspeople mirror his offer, one I'm not prepared to accept.
"Thanks," I say, though we all know I won't take him up on it.
As I walk away, heading to the final store, the festive atmosphere feels almost mocking. The smiles, the warmth- it all seems like a world away from the cold existence I've chosen.
"Hey, Morgan!" Thomas calls from behind the counter at his hardware store as I enter, and there's an undercurrent to his voice that sets my teeth on edge.
"Thomas," I acknowledge with a curt nod, continuing past him and down the aisles without stopping, intent on grabbing materials that I was running short on in case any repairs were needed while I was cut off from society.
Our history was a twisted one, and I have no intention of unraveling any of it now, nor playing into his little ego trips.
"Big storm coming," he remarks, almost casually. "Wouldn't want to be caught out in it alone." he says meaningfully as I put the items on the counter and wait for him to ring it up.
"Neither would I," I mutter under my breath, refusing to make eye contact.
He wasn't worth my time. All I wanted to do was load this onto the bed of my truck, climb in next to Dingus who waited patiently in the cab and head home.
I had tolerated all the Christmas cheer that I could this year. For me, this season wasn't about joy, merriment or family…it was nothing but a season of loneliness and loss and I would be pleased when it was over.
- Writer
