Cold. Chilling, bone-aching, heart-stopping cold. That’s all there is; that’s all you know.

Awake and enter a world where all is icy and unknown; where you are severely injured and trapped in a frosty imprisonment, and every sort of memory is in oblivion, even your own name. That’s what happens when a young man awakens, you, in a hyperborean prison, every condition met as stated. It seems futile, trying to survive in the arctic room, as unprepared as you are; hypothermia is inevitable. But, you can’t give up, not after the vision you had of that beautiful girl, when you had succombed to the pain and fatigue. Though you didn’t know her in your mind, your heart seems to recognize her as someone very precious to you. For her sake, you can’t die, you can’t give in to the pain and the cold, which sits idly by, waiting to strike the moment you let your guard down. You will escape, you will remember, and you will find that girl and figure out how you ended up in the icy clutches of this hell


1. Awakening and Entering the Ice

Hello. :)

Name is Smokelesseyes, but you can call me Smokey for short. This is the first chapter of my first novel, Cold. It is also available at Wattpad (Same username :)) 

Now, before you begin reading, there is something I must explain. This story in front of you is written in SEOCND PERSON. That means, instead of referring to the character as "I" or "He/She" they are referred to as "You." I've never come across a book so far in my life written in this way, because Second Person is the most difficult to capture. That's why I decided to write in second person; a challenge.  Basically, as you read, YOU are the main character. (Whose a guy, BTW). I know some people have a hard time wrapping their head around this sort of writing, so if you need or have any questions, feel free to ask away. 


Alright, that's it. Now, on to chapter one!!!


(P.S Please like, comment, & love!!!)







Cold. That’s the first thought to enter your mind as you flitter between consciousness and the darkness that has you in its’ sluggish hold. Cold, freezing, icy; these words all develop and become more realistic as your mind drifts closer to reality, bitter cold reality.

You drift upward and away from the darkness, towards the chill that becomes more feeling than thought as you rise.

Cold,  so very, very cold.

Suddenly, you feel yourself behind your eyelids, which weigh heavily on your eyes as the suspending darkness becomes merely the darkness in which your closed eyes created.

You can no longer ignore the cold. It is there, real, right next to you; all around you. It scales your body, curling around your whole being, making everything freeze in action at the touch. it constricts your breathing, slows your thoughts, and makes even your heartbeat feel weak.

Your eyelids are still leaden, but you know you need to move. You can’t just lay around and let this icy feeling take a permanent grip of your body. Something tells you that if you do, you won’t be able to rid it; ever.

So, taking all your strength, you slowly open your eyes and find yourself being blinded by the fluorescent light that seems to float just above you.

It takes all your power to not shut your eyes away from the harsh prickling light.

As your eyes adjust, you realize that the blinding light is revealing silver walls, that look metal and rough to touch. The walls seem to catch the gaze of the light and throw it back to you in a duller manor. Metal rungs create shelves that are molded into the silver lining, and spread to the top of the not-too-high ceiling.  

But that is not all the light shows. As your eyes adjust more, you notice tendrils of whispery white curl around the air and the room, peeling off the walls like flaking paint.

The room seems familiar, but your mind seems to be in a pool of molasses, freezing more and more with each passing minute, making it impossible to place a name on the place you are currently at.

Still, not knowing where you are leaves an uncomfortable squirm in your stomach. So, moving your arms (at least, you think you are, but your arms are so cold that you can’t tell if you are or not), you try to push yourself up into a sitting position.

However, this proves to be a bad choice, because as soon as you move to lift your head, a stabbing pain rushes through it, as though someone had forced an icicle through the back of your head.

Immediately, you stop moving, but it’s too late to stop the pain that now courses through your head like the rushing water that comes with the break of a damn. As the pain floods your thoughts, your senses, it becomes hard not to give in to the darkness that so gently calls your name with the promise of relief.  The only thing that stops you from doing so is the little voice in the back of your agonizing mind, that pleads so desperately for you to fight it, to overcome the growing urge to give in to the dark, that makes you pity it and withstand the pain that presses into your head.

After a few minutes of jaw clenching and fist making, the waves of pain subsided to those created at low-tide; few and weak. As the pain drops down from a searing spear of unbearable measure to merely a throb, you breathe a sigh of relief, releasing a cloud of white into the air.

It is surprising to you that sweat clings to your forehead, that it is even possible for your body to emit its’ natural cooling system when you are already numb.

Your hands feel clammy as well, and bouts of nausea roll through you with a strength that makes you gag reflexively a few times for good measure.

Even though the pain is merely “noise in the background,” you can’t help as the world tilts and bows before you, the sharp silver walls mixing with the harsh lights and the white fog becoming increasingly thicker.

You feel disconnected from everything, as though someone had removed you from your body and stuffed cotton in your head.  You are not really here, you are somewhere else, somewhere safe, comfortable, and most importantly warm.

So, this time, you let yourself fade away. away from the spiraling world and nauseous waves, and into that warm, happy place.


You don’t know when it happened, when you actually started dreaming.

Darkness had coveted your mind for what felt like an unending span of time.  You, just drifting and curling into its’ comforting grip.

Then, suddenly, you were standing, backpack slung over a shoulder and a book in your free hand’s loose grip. You are standing on a sidewalk, surrounded by grass and a few autumn-wrung trees that let loose an abundance of crinkling leaves as the playful wind blows them all around.

You blink, and look around some more, still unsure where you are.

Then you hear something. A noise, causing you to look in the direction it came from.

Running down the sidewalk, a girl makes her way towards you. Her white blonde hair billows in it’s ponytail, and her arms grip something to her chest. The leaves dance around her as she hurries over to you, a shy smile on her face as she comes to stop in front of you.

She is tall, but still shorter than you. She begins to talk, waving a hand here and there. But the words that are suppose to be coming from her mouth form only a muffled noise, as though someone has pressed glass against your ears. She seems rather serious, as you note from her light blue eyes that have a sharp and wise look about them, which sharply contrasts with her pale cheeks dusted pink from huffing it over to you.

Suddenly,she notices your free hand. Face reddening, she reaches for your free hand with her small one, clad in a brown glove. Taking your hand in hers, she turns and begins leading you down the walk the way she came at a brisk pace, as though she is embarrassed to hold hands with you.

With her leading, you are able to notice more of her dressings. She wears a brown coat that goes to the middle of her thighs and ties in the front. Around her neck, an orange scarf is tucked into the buttoned coat. She wears dark jeans and a pair of brown boots over them. In her hair, a thick brown band separates her  pulled back hair from her thick bangs, which sweep into her eyes just enough so she can still see. She remains silent, but you notice the white mist that accompanies her exhaling.

Even here, in your dreams, it is still cold.

But, you too seem to be wearing clothes that “fit” the weather: A thick black jacket that is unzipped to reveal a white tee-shirt, along with a dark green scarf that wraps your neck in a snug hug. You look down to see you are wearing dark blue jeans, and what looks to be work boots.

The girl doesn’t turn around for the rest of the walk down the sidewalk. You think you catch her taking a glimpse at you from the corner of her eye, but as soon as your blue meet her lighter one’s, she seems startled and looks back to the front, her pace picking up and hand tightening around yours.

Then, all the sudden, she stops. You almost stumble into her at her quick halt. She whips around, ponytail chasing itself as she does so, her blue eyes determined and face scorched red.

You wonder if she is sick or has a fever, when she suddenly drops her folder and instead grabs your hands,causing you to drop your book in surprise at the quickness and strength of her petite hands.

Looking down at her, you hear her mutter something, but once again, it is just gargled and distorted to your ears. Then, all of the sudden, she props herself on her toes, pulls her arms and your arms down for balance, leans in, and lets her lips graze yours.

You are shocked, stunned that a girl you just met would actually just come up and kiss you. You are confused; why was she doing this, you didn’t know each other, right?

Her lips linger for a moment, soft and plump against yours, the heat from her cheeks radiating off. The smell of clean snow enters your nostrils, a smell that must belong to her.

Then, she retreats, and is standing merely with your hands in hers, face even more red, if it was possible.

You look at her, wondering what to make of the girl in front of you, and are just about to ask her her name when she looks up at you, averts her gaze to the ground, and this time, you are shocked to hear actually words leave her lips, quiet and muttered:

“Happy Birthday Caleb.”


Once again, the numbing chill enters your body,swirling around and settling into every inch of skin it could fit, absorbing any pathetic amount of warmth left and staking its’ territory.

The cold is harsh and sucks up your body heat without a warning. The very action makes it hard to even think, to even process what just happened, what it was that you just saw, or well, were.

Was it a dream? Or a memory?

But, if it was a memory, it wasn’t old...

Did that mean you didn’t have some of your memory, or any of it?

As this thought crossed your shivering mind, many more followed a suit:

How could you not notice? If you had no memory of anything, then how could you not have noticed until now?

And with this, more simple yet integral questions to your very person entered your mind:

Who are you? What are you doing here? How long had you been here?

What is your name?

You rattled your mind for an answer to any of these simple questions that a toddler could answer with ease. But, nothing came. All that answered was a void of black and mystery.

“Happy Birthday Caleb.”

You seem to freeze, not literally, but more internally as this sentence whisps out of the void and echoes all around your head.

Caleb. That’s what the girl said, what she called you.

Was that who you were? Are? Caleb?

Was that your name?

As this thought swirls among the many in your brain about you yourself, a dull throb from the back of your head interrupts your rushing anxiety.

Remembering that it was this, this throb that caused all that had happened since you first woke up in here and not wanting to experience what you just went through again, you wait an extra few minutes  to let the throb drop down to a mere sore beat against your brain. Then, carefully, hand stiff and shaking from the cold, you bring your fingers back and gingerly brush the area where the beat comes from.

As your fingers touch the spot, you notice that it is wet, a thick sort-of wet, kind of like putting your fingers in pudding. Not exactly wet, nor solid, but somewhere in between. Taking a breath, you put a little more pressure into your examining fingers, and lift your head just a little to get a better feel of how long the wound actually is.

As your fingers trace, you realize that the pudding-feeling substance spreads across the back of your head, in globs and merely smeared across your hair like paint on a canvas. You can feel a ridge that literally dips into your scalp, at least a fingertips’ length. As you carefully feel this part, you feel something stick to your fingers, something solid and not of a puddingly-state like the stuff that coats the back of your head. Heart thumping a little with fear of what your fingers would carry when they withdrew, you close your eyes and take a few deep breaths, trying to calm yourself as your heart pounds in your ears as your stomach makes suggestive bubbling and knotting sequences.

Still, even deep breaths will not delay the inevitable. You will have to redraw your hand sometime. Might as well do it now.

Eyes still shut, you untangle your fingers from the now-tingling wound and bring them back.
Your heart is still beating like the quick, heavy rolls on a drum, and every fiber in your being urges you, no pleads for you not to open your eyes and see the horror that waits a mere few inches from your face.

But once again, the only thing that forces you onward is that small voice, crouched and hidden beyond the depths of the heavy, draping, darkness that swarms your mind and hides yourself from you. It calls out in that pitiful little voice, like the small mews of a helpless kitten, to open your eyes, that you have to know what’s wrong with you, so you can fix it, and make everything better, even if it’s only pausing the agitated throb that has been fixated around the back of your head since you awoke.

Following that little voice through the darkness and screams of many that tell you not to, you grab onto the little voice and are dragged up, and are opening your eyes to the hand in front of you.

Red. Your fingers are smeared with a red substance, trapped in that pudding-like state and globbed thicker in more places than others. The smell of rust and metal manages to penetrate your numb nasal cavities, and you realize that what you are looking at is your semi-frozen blood, congealing on the back of your head from the cold.

But that is not the worst. The small rough little ball you felt graze your fingertips is stuck on the blood on your index finger. It is pale and flaking, but sturdy.

If you hadn’t noticed the broken strand of hair attached to it, you wouldn’t have realized that it was a piece of your scalp.

You feel your eyes widened, and suddenly, you can’t look at anything but that small piece of your head stuck in your gummy blood.

For some absurd reason, you thought that you weren’t hurt this bad. Even though the pain that had erupted into your head when you had first awoken to this cold had been nearly unbearable, you didn’t think it was signaling that your head was cracked open.

Unconsciously, you reach back again and tentatively feel the ridged crack on the back of your head. It was deep, but it didn’t seem to have cracked the cranium itself, which was good. You vaguely recall from some unknown part of your shattered mind that head injuries tend to bleed more than regular ones, which meant you could have lost an unhealthy amount of blood, given how long you had had the injury and been ignorant of it.

You brought your hand back for a second time, the red stained your fingers more so but also with an even thicker velocity. You study your hand, and try to think of how your blood managed to start clotting when you had done nothing to staunch the bleeding.

At least, on purpose.

As you stare at your coated fingers, trying to figure out how your head had started clotting, the cold air bites at the back of your neck, causing a shiver to reflexively run through your body

It was so cold.



The idea sudden bursts forth from your foggy mind.

“It’s so cold in here...perhaps it was the temperature that caused my blood to flow sluggishly out of my head, and then,” I thought, placing my hand against the icy metal wall I had been propped up against when I first regained consciousness, “the wall acted as pressurized ice-pack, causing my blood to stick to my head and the wall, and freeze...”

Though the idea about your blood freezing on the wall was uncomfortable to think about, you turned yourself around slowly to look at where your head had been laying.

Sure enough, the wall was smeared with the same red on the back of your head; who would have thought that the very thing making your lungs burn with each intake of air would also help you not bleed out.

Of course, just because it had saved your life, didn’t mean it wasn’t a disturbing sight to see, blood smeared and frozen on the wall, especially if it was your blood.

Not wanting to lay your head back against... that part of the wall, you took your non-viscid coated hand, you pressed down on the floor, the sudden contact with it’s freezing surface making your hand burn like it was over an open flame.

Still, you’d rather have your hand burn for a few seconds than let your head rest against the...”pudding” on the wall.

Readying yourself for the move, you sturdy your head, and bent forward a little, to avoid accidently bumping it against the wall.

Taking a breath, you pushed. Your eyes widened and your breath caught in your throat; not from the pain in your head, but from the burning throb that came from your arm and shoulder.

Immediately, you stopped pushing on it. Carefully, you lifted your arm up, and for the first time, got a good look at it.

By the looks of it, it was broken. Well, that was an understatement; your arm was bent the wrong way. What should have been your elbow was your inner arm, sticking out at an awkward angle. It must have happened around the same time as your head; it was extremely swollen, and had only started to bloom with bruises.

As you looked over your forcefully rearranged arm, you wondered how you could have not noticed the scorching flames of pain crawling up your ar earlier. Then again, the pain from your head had been much worse, so maybe your head’s injury canceled out the pain from your arm, over flooding your pain sensors. But now that that pain had become nothing more than an irritating ache, your arm took it’s chance and let it’s pain wash over your body, only increasing as you applied pressure.

But, the pain didn’t seem to be coming from just your twisted arm; there was more pain, smaller, but burning with more intensity. It was coming from your shoulder. Craning your neck to check it out, your heart seemed to stutter as you saw your white tee-shirt stained red.

Covering the shoulder of your shirt, the red bled through, a shock against the originally white shirt. The shirt had a tear in it, ripping from your chest to your scapula, rushed and full of malicious intent. Underneath, your shoulder pulsed and throbbed.

Even though it was still coated, you took your good arm and attempted to lift the ruined part of your shirt to get a better look at your injury. However, as you tugged carefully, the shirt refused to move. It was stiff and stuck to your skin.

It seemed it wasn’t only your head where the blood had froze.

You gave the shirt another tug, and the another, firm but gentle. You knew you had been cut; the throb and sting were telling you so. If it wasn’t obvious with the amount of blood staining a good portion of your shirt, the cut was deep.

But the tiny pulls weren’t getting you any closer to removing the frozen fabric from your skin. Not only that, but your arm was starting to tingle as well as your shoulder. Your head throbbed, as if in warning, to stop messing with what the cold had done.

Reluctantly, you let go of the shirt. It wasn’t budging, and if you used more force, the cut might open up more and become even worse.

So instead of focusing on one injury, you checked yourself over for more.

You moved your legs back and forth, rolling your ankles and your good shoulder. So far, besides feeling sore, no pain emitted from any of them. Taking your good arm, you began pressing lightly all over your chest and stomach, wincing as you came in contact with your ribs. As you pressed down, small flames of pain licked the bones,causing you to wince and pull your hand away. Okay, so the ribs didn’t get off scott-free. They were either broken or just bruised badly, according to the little flickers and heated throbs they were sending out.

It seemed only your upper body had sustained injuries, seeing as your jeans weren’t darkened with blood and  knees snapped inward.  

 Which meant you should be able to walk.

As the thought rushes to the front of your mind, millions of possibilities push through:

If you can walk, you can stand.

If you can stand, you can move.

If you can move, you can make your way through here.

If you make your way through here, you can find an exit.

If you find an exit, you can leave.


No more cold.

It was these last few tidbits of thought that pushed you forth the plan forming from these thoughts, now becoming concrete and set in your mind:

You would stand.

You would move.

You would figure out where you are, how you got here, and most importantly, who you are and who that girl was.

You would leave, you would escape the cold.

You would be cold no more.

All you had to do was stand.

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