Counting Snowflakes [.[Tom].] blitz

Just as I am about to turn away from the glassy, frozen surface of the pond, something catches my eye. A figure is running toward me, and my first instinct is to sink back into the bushes before he catches sight of me. You can't survive a day in the wilderness without being paranoid, after all. He's tall, much taller than me. I take a step back, but the second it takes for me to process what he is doing makes it too late. He slips and falls on the ice, sliding toward me in a flurry of snowflakes. What is he doing here?

He looks up at me with large eyes, as though he is drinking in my every feature. I watch in mute horror as his eyes slide over my hair, my face, and finally down to my bare feet, nestled in the snow. That is when I notice his blood - crimson, scarlet, painting the ground around him like paint on a blank canvas. His eyes slide closed and suddenly I find the ability to move once more.

'Oh my god,' I hear myself say, before darting back behind the tree as fast as I can and nestling myself right into the bushes. My own safety is
what I must put first. He was running so fast, with such a look in his eyes that someone could well have been chasing him. Maybe to have him killed or avoxed.

It wasn't my stupid mistake to get myself caught, and I don't want to die here. I watch snowflakes settle on the ground for seconds. Minutes, half an hour passes. An hour. Nobody comes. I step out from behind the tree and bend down to the boys level. The blood seems to have stopped flowing, but I cannot truly be sure.

I stand and watch the boy, not feeling the snowflakes which land delicately about my body, in my hair, on my clothes. I take a deep, shuddering breath and wonder what it is like to feel the rain on my skin. I have not felt it in so long, because everything is frozen.

I remember swimming. The water blue and deep, me breezing through it like a fish. Sometimes I wish the water could swallow me up, because in the water I am free to move where I please. Swimming is like flying until you run out of breath.

The boy before me shakes into consciousness, and I nudge him with my toe.

"Hello," he says in a voice I can barely understand.

I frown, glance around myself and then look back down at him.

"What the hell are you doing? Do you want to get yourself killed? Do you want to get me killed?" With that, I clutch the back of his collar and begin to tug him up. When he is too heavy for me, I kick him pointedly, glaring at him. All the while his eyes wander my hair, my face. I look back at him in disgust.

It's taking an awful lot of energy to scowl at this boy so intensely, but I can't help but do it because his very features are annoying me. What kind of a stupid, suicidal, selfish person runs through the woods like that? Falls and blanks themselves out? Bleeds into the snow and expects me to hang around. And I did, if only to kick some common sense into the loser. So again I kick him and scowl at him and ignore the way he is staring at me. Like I'm some kind of mirage.
And then he introduces himself. Tom. My lips curl into a smile and I look down at him and raise my eyebrows.
"Coralia."
I don't say I'm pleased to meet him, as I'm not. I just turn around and head into the woods and wonder if he will follow.

And he follows me. Predictable. I keep walking for a while, picking my way through the snow in a way I know leaves no footprints. It's hardly worth it - the boy behind me is leaving a great trail. I'd scream at him if the snow wasn't covering them up in seconds.
It takes me only a couple of minutes to make it to my camp, to pull out the water jug and fill it with snow. And then I light a precious match, make a tiny fire and begin to boil the water until it is clean. Daily rituals I have learned to keep myself alive.
And while the kettle is boiling I listen to him speak, and he asks why I left him.
"I knew you'd follow." I raise my eyebrows as I answer this, a challenge, and then I pour him a cup of steaming water. And demand that he drinks it.
I sigh. Why am I so nice?

I am a mermaid, yet I am not from Four. Sometimes I wish I was, to have grown up with the sea at my feet. Maybe then I would never have had to leave. But no, I wasn't from Four, and I must tell the boy that now as he asks me. I sip my own water gently, and then nod. "One."
It takes me a moment to muster up the interest to ask him the same question. He looks like he is from ten, or maybe eleven. That strong, sturdy build. I wonder what made him leave and I wonder how he has survived, considering he seems to know nothing about living here.
"What about you?"

I watch the boys eyes as he tells me where he is from and I know that he is hiding something from me. I bristle, because I've practically saved this boys life, and I've given him water, and he repays me by not telling me things and hiding things from me. And then I realise that I don't care. So I begin to talk, not because I like him but because I never tell anything what is happening inside my head.
"I left one because I felt trapped. I just wanted to swim and be free, you know? Neverland. It's just growing up, I guess. Having a job and being part of Panem. But I couldn't leave, because my twin, Marina, was still there."
My tone is steady, and it is though I am separated from my words, not really feeling them. There is no emotion in my face or my eyes or my voice.
"And then I fell, and I hit my head and all that I could remember was Neverland. So I left before I could love again."
I looked at him, challenging him to challenge me. Sometimes it's good to say the unexpected.