Artificial Snow

There wasn't much to do on ski lifts besides admire artificial snow on frail trees with too thin arms reaching for heavily clothed bodies, and count empty lifts on our right executing their perfectly orchestrated retreat, like soldiers marching from battle. It was either that, or succumb to the senseless conversation between Emmy and Rafael. Their conversations drifted from Would You Rather, and constant following argumentation on whether this option was better than that one.

I faintly noticed the snowboard's familiar weight on my feet, and the deviantly soothing brutal pelting of snow at every hint of exposed skin. After meeting the end of the lift, we rode over to where the others were waiting.

A couple- for lack of a more appropriate, simpler label- "friends" had invited me to join their New Year's celebration for the usual crap motel room, drugs and heavily intoxicated teens- most of which will never find a way out of this useless little town and find something semi-decent to do with their lives. I, considering a scarcity of other plans and offer of free drugs, had decided to accept the invitation, which included free lift tickets- and who was I to deny such gracious attempts of friendship?... and free drugs, may I remind you.

I have a feeling, just a little voice in the back of my head, that they regretted extending such an invitation to myself, consider my constant sulking in corners; unfortunate for them, they can't take it back now. Blokes.

A couple more slopes later, and there had been a mutual agreement to move to the motel, where the grand majority of the party was waiting. The trip to the motel was a blur, and before I realized it I was being suffocated by a sea of sweaty, high teenagers, and a blunt was being placed in my hand.

Post awaking the next morning, I didn't know where I was and I couldn't conjure a second of the party. All I could solidify is I was lacking a shirt and, with all my experience, was susceptible to the self-diagnoses of a hangover from hell.

After doing a full body check with investigative skills Sherlock would envy (an awkward series of moments where I sluggishly performed a pat down on myself), I discovered a crumbled piece of paper in my pocket and a box of cigars and a lighter thrown somewhere to the left of the bed I had spent the night in.

A sudden flick of a switch had left me momentarily blinded, and ignorant to the warnings coming from the bloody bastard who had summoned the sun god under the very roof I resided under. Which brought the question of who's roof it belonged to.

A heavy sigh drew my mind back to consciousness. "When I'm done here, I'm going to move into a hospital and deal with simple problems, like gangrene."

I was in too much pain, too sore to come up with something worthwhile, and instead let out a clever groan and strung a flimsy arm over my eyes to shield the god forsaken lights.

"Happy New Year, by the way," and the chirp tone was such an obvious mock.

With that delightful parting, I heard the shift of wooden floorboards and I bolted to a sitting position, "Wait," came a hoarse voice, barely recognizable as my own and without my consent, "let's keep this a surreptitious affair; a meeting between you and I, and no one else."

I could practically hear the eye roll in the instant reply, "You make it sound like something happened. " After a glance at my face, which must've looked worried with the slight crinkle of her eyebrow, the visitor complied with charm and etiquette I would never forget, "Only if you keep my secret masochistic ways under wraps, love."

"Of course, dear," I had said, and it must've sounded as relieved as I felt.

The unappreciated guest retreated with a wink, and I fell asleep shortly after.

It was only after I woke up, it must've been several hours since my headache had such drastically improved, later before I had even bothered with the little paper in my pocket.

"New Years' Revolution:", it read, followed by the drunken sprawl that was my sworn statement of the year.

The words had triggered a feeling of suffocation, I remembered, regardless of how roomy and open the room had been. I was like gasoline after being confronted by a match. Most of all, I didn't understand why I would bother with such a wish at the state I was in. I was expecting something more random and bubbly- something the typical high person would've written.

I remember it being several days later when I had bothered with the piece of paper again. Reading over the words for the nth time, I had looked myself in the mirror and genuinely contemplated whether I should make an effort to set out for my intoxicated dreams. I had ogled the deep bags residing under the constant irritation my eyes suffered from, skin hanging from thin bones, and frail fingers brutally trembling. The typical appearance of an addict . . . Well, maybe not an addict. Someone with an addiction, more like it.

It was February when I had signed up for rehab. It was definitely the absolute worst of my existence. The process left me nursing a mental breakdown. It was like mourning a loved one; you were given artificial support and expected to simply remember and forget.

March was madness. I spent all of April apprehensive, and occasionally dead sure, that I would eventually break. I spent May drifting between suicidal and barely breathing, to ecstatic flourishing. June, I was . . . okay, maybe. In July, I was given the clear, and hightailed out of there. August was, dare I say it, almost worthwhile. I had found myself someone I liked; nevertheless, the person who willingly looked after my hungover self that one faraway day. We had been true to our promise and kept that one meeting completely secret. September was an uphill treck. I had took up play writing, something I never would've bothered with nine months ago.

Soon, December rolls around, once more. I sit on a lift and eye artificial snow on lifeless trees, and count endlessly empty seats miraculous popping up besides us and stare into the eyes of someone I think I love, and look down at my fingers. They were now firmly interlocked with the person of my dreams, no longer frail and trembling and belonging to that of an ill, poor excuse of a human being.

With that, I reach into my pocket and pull out a locket. It was a heart shaped, golden dipped beauty with a rusted chain; something past down to me, nothing short of a family heirloom. Once venturing inside and shallow within this heart- yet deep within another-, I lay my eyes upon a piece of crumbled paper.

There, were it always resides, is old drunken sprawl, the hopes of a pathetic idiot who would've laughed until they shart themselves if you told them they would be where I am now after a mere year and a crumbled piece of paper reading:-

"What's wrong?" I'm asked, as the end of the ride creeps closer.

"Nothing short of a sudden realization. It's about my past New Year's Resolution, I simply realized it's complete."

"What was it?"

Glancing down at the chicken scratch once more, I stared into eyes that I would never grow old of seeing, "Nothing," and I let the old paper slip between my fingers and down, down into artificial snow.