@ THE SNOW GIRL

#By Linette Voller 1992


 It was quiet on the mist covered moor, secretly quiet, as though the 
heavy blanket of snow was muffling every sound. There were birds 
hovering over the leafless, skeletal branches of the trees, but I 
could hear no song.
 The silence did not bother me. I like quiet. I like to get away from 
people. All my life I've been a loner and people do not understand 
this. My mother and father for instance. They are always telling me 
that I should make friends and possibly join a "nice" local youth club
or some other social activity which is healthy for a girl my age.
 "Leave your books for a while, Abigail." Mother had said that 
afternoon. "New people have moved into Holly cottage. Why don't you go
along and introduce yourself? There's a girl your age too. Maybe you 
can become her friend. It would be nice to have a friend for tea 
wouldn't it?"
 I don't want nice friends. I don't see the point. Friends cannot 
teach you anything a book can't. Also, at my age they just chatter 
mindlessly about pop stars and boys they love, none of which I am the 
slightest bit interested in. I knew my mother would keep on, though, 
so that afternoon - for the sake of peace - I walked out of our house,
then slowly down the road to Holly Cottage.
 I then quickly walked past it, across the busy road and down onto the
silent moors. I went on for a while, relishing the open space with 
nobody shouting at me and regained the feeling of being able to breath
again.
 I must have wandered at least three miles whenI noticed the Snow 
Girl. Someone must have spent a lot of time making her, I thought.
 She was even wearing snow clothes, which were perfect even down to 
the minute buttons on her snowy blouse.
 It was a tremendous shock when the figure moved. It turned its head 
and looked straight at me. I heard a sound... like a young child's 
sob. There were icy tears on her cheeks too, dripping, crystal clear -
like icicles.
 Pathetic really. All the same, I walked straight past it... her. I 
don't like getting involved, you see. Like I said, I'm a loner.
 For a moment I felt a touch uneasy and started to feel slightly 
guilty. "Maybe she is just feeling unhappy and it's something private,
something she doesn't want to share," said a little voice in my head. 
"Yes," it insisted. "Ignore her. Keep walking."
 I did as the voice had said.
 I nearly jumped out of my skin when I felt her fingers lightly touch 
the back of my neck. They were as cold as ice. She deftly caught my 
hand and squeezed it tightly, and before I knew it she was whispering 
deep into my ear. Her breath was also freezing cold, and her voice was
soft with a desperate pleading tone.
 "Help me," she whsipered. "Help me!" She pointed ahead, then to the
left. "Over there, remember? Help me!"
 Her hair had fallen like a thick, white curtain across her pale face 
and the hazy afternoon light had begun to slowly fade. This all 
resulted in creating the illusionthat she was getting more like a real
person every moment. I had this feeling that I had seen her somewhere 
before, I think it's called "deja-vu". I seemed to remember having 
done all this before.
 "Over there," repeated the Snow Girl. "Remember?"
 She tugged at my arm, pulling me with superhuman strength, ahead and 
towards the left, towards the deeper shadows. At that point, I glanced
back the way we had come. There were footprints in the snow, but only
one set:
# My own.
 I screamed, hit out at the Snow Girl, and pulled myself free. I ran 
and ran, screaming because I'd remembered where I had seen the girl 
before. I was still screaming when I reached the edge of the moor and 
the road.
 Screaming when I ran into the path of a car, which hit me.
 
 That's why I'm lying in hospital bed both my legs and my left arm 
encased in plaster. I'm in a single bed room because of the dreams. 
They make me scream out, and that disturbs the other patients. So I 
was moved in here this morning. It's the doctors and nurses that call 
them dreams. I know they are not.
 She's here now, the Snow Girl, at the window. Tapping on the panes 
with her cold fingers. I see the icicle tears on her cheeks. I can see
her mouthing "help me" and "remember".
 The first time I saw her - last summer - she'd said, "I just need 
someone to talk to. My parents are breaking up and I think I've failed
my exams. I... I just need someone to talk to. Please, please help 
me!" but I had turned away, turned my back on her. I did not want to 
be involved. She ran off, crying, not looking where she was going... 
tear blinded. I suppose that's why she didn't notice the suspiciously 
bright stretch of green grass. Within seconds those bogs had claimed 
another victim.
 She's still out there; tapping, mouthing. Now her anger is starting 
to show. The accusation. She'd only wanted a few conforting words, 
that hot summers day. My right arm will not move. It's numb. I can not
reach the bell by my bed to summon the nurse. My arm is turning to 
ice. The snow is coming through the window now.
 I'm alone - helpless.