The Final Season

It is the season of cold.

The windows are covered in an intricate, yet unappealing, frost that hails the coming of winter.
If you looked closely enough, you may even catch sight of a snowflake in its descent from the grey expanse of the depressed sky.
Inside, the lights all turned off and the blanket pulled up, you sit holding a cup of cheap instant coffee, more for warmth than taste. You haven't been able to pay the gas bill last month and it seems that you will be unable to yet again. It is cold, but not too cold,, just enough that you are forced to wear a thick, woollen jumper and produce the odd shiver or burst of gooseflesh.
You pull your sleeves, one by one, over your icy fingertips, careful not to spill the hot liquid.
You close my eyes and dream of Spring. Dream of life.

Ah. A frozen smile and Winter eyes.
A greeting that catches you off guard because of its insincerity. A greeting like a cold slap of wind. A greeting of icicles and frozen lakes.
Her voice is like a choir singing at the festivity and yet her eyes... Oh, how cold are her eyes!
Like the Snow Queen she drifts past on a white sleigh pulled by her slaves, the reindeer. She is like a twisted Father Christmas, here to instil fear in your heart. Here to steal joy.

The cold, not-yet-frozen street outside is sad. The tears of the sky splash into puddles of those already shed. The scene makes the sky cry, but not the people. They are too close to see the sadness.
A Christmas tree stands, put on display far too early, a light shining behind it to give it a warm glow. All it does is give the appearance of the tree being ablaze. The warmth of fire. The heat of destruction.

It is the season of death.

Gently raised lashes half cover eyes the colour of a meadow.
Middle-aged men seeking solace at the bottom of their glasses surround the pair of you.
You say something and he laughs for no reason. It has no reason.
He smiles only briefly, as refreshing as a Spring breeze. He smiles the smile of life.

Outside, there is only the dying and the dead.
The trees are devoid of leaves and only the smallest birds, the robins and the occasional sparrow, float past on their fluttering wings like the fairies of Christmas tales. They do not fly in such a way with excitement or joy but with a panicked speed. They know, their instincts tell them, that if they don't find enough food they will surely die.
They are warned by the tiny dead bird that lies in the gutter, mostly covered by fallen leaves. It is as if they try to hide its corpse away from the glances the passers by. It is as if, in death, they are trying to retain its dignity.
There is no dignity in death. There is nothing at all.

I'm dreaming of a white Christmas...
The snowflakes that fall are too singular, too alone to remain on the ground for long before they melt. You wish you had a voice they could hear, so you could tell them how futile their effort is if they try it alone.
Just like the ones I used to know...
The clouds remain over the city as far as the eye can see. They were grey, but grow darker all the time and now they have that peculiar purplish tinge that warns everything below that the tears have grown so cold that they have turned to frozen, white snow. Nature's impression of ash. Without something to cause destruction, ash cannot be real, and so nature, as it dies in Winter, makes a crude mockery that is too beautiful to be compared.
And may all your Christmases be white.

It is the season of desperate opposites.

She grins. Her shining white teeth are reminiscent of the crescent moon, spotted easily on a warm, Summer's night.
It is not so cold now and she holds your hands to keep them warm. You can sense her unparalleled joy at life, at living! All through one, comforting touch she tells you that it will be okay and that good will rise again to defeat the evil that surrounds you, just like the stories told to you as a child.
Ah, she knows you're afraid, but there is no need to be. She holds you close and you feel no fear. You allow your eyelids to close.

The clouds disperse ever so slightly, made noticeable by the few rays of light gracing the grey buildings with their touch. Sure enough, as if they had been waiting for such a sign, the people come flooding into the streets, their arms held high above their heads.
A roar! Loud, almost deafening, as it soars as high as the startled hawks, gulls and pigeons. It touches the clouds and shakes them with its splendour and might!
After the roar comes a silence just as loud.

Heat is oppressive but cold is all-consuming.
Cold is all you can think about while heat leads to other thoughts. Cold eats away at your mind until you want to tear it away, in any way you can.
The sun is reflected by the moon, but the moon is the most beautiful. Its coldness is stunning.
It is all you can think about.

It is the season of peace.

A sigh as gentle as an Autumn breeze. It grazes your cheek and disperses.
A gloved hand reaches and, ever so gently, grasps yours.
His eyes are the colour of fire, as if an Autumnal forest had been set alight. But they hold no fire of their own, they are merely reflections of that outside.
The logs in the fireplace are alight and shadows are cast across the room you and he are so intrigued by. You see the children rush in, the parents following with trays of mugs, steam rising.
His hand squeezes yours and you briefly glance at one another.

The clouds have dispersed completely. The crowds have gone.
All that is left is the silence, heavy, oppressive. It is the silence that signals change. The 'quiet before the storm'.
With silence like this, what a storm it will be.

You knew you saw yourself within it.
Your reflection smiles back at you, even though you have not moved your lips. It showed you how to neaten your hair and look presentable, even though this does not concern you.
The distinction between which of you is the reflected image blurred until even you could not tell.
Which of you is in control now?

It is the sacred season. The final season.

The Winter eyes are back and, with finality, you accept them. You hold them with your gaze despite the burning cold.
She no longer bothers to smile with her icicle teeth, sharpened just for you.
You no longer look away, your eyes warm enough to melt her frozen heart.
The ice will not disperse until it is banished by the Spring. Death will not depart until He is banished by Life.
No one, no matter how much they wish it, can stop the end of things. No one is capable of such an act. Not even a God.
Nothing can stop the Winter. No one can halt the progression to the final days.

It is the sacred season, the final season.
It is Winter, it is death.