The way home

You push yourself with a strong determination through the deep snow which gathers at your knees. Your tiny gloved hand reaches up towards your father’s and you cling with desperation to his sleeve. The snow is falling thick, spiralling down in large clumps of flakes, almost blinding you both in a shroud of white. The bitter wind stings your cheeks and each leg feels dull and heavy as metal, but you know better than to complain.

With no sun to position your place in the day, you begin to wonder how long you’ve been lost. You try to remember what time you left the house, but by now, that feels like days ago. Your limbs have been numbed from the cold and your head hangs low. You glance up at your father with a smile in hope of a few words reassurance, but he only shakes his head.

Large clumps of ice have formed under the tongue of your boot and your hair has frozen stiff. With eyes firmly closed to keep out the snow, you walk straight on, briskly as possible, guided by your father. It dawns on you that soon it wont be possible for you keep walking as you are as you feel your exhaustion steadily grow. You know that you could die here. You stop walking.
Standing completely still, you lift your head up towards the sky and let the snow begin to cover your face, now numb enough to barely feel the large clusters of snowflakes. It is now that you have reached the point where you simply cannot go on.

Your father lunges back through the snow to where you stand and puts his arms gently around you. He reaches deep into the large pockets of his dark coat and pulls out a small red sweet, glinting in its cellophane wrapping. Your face crinkles in delight and you laugh a little. You take the small sweet out of your fathers hand and slowly twist each end of the sweet, unfolding the plastic wrapper. You gently place the sweet on your tongue and savour that sweet taste. Gradually, as the sweet dissolves on your tongue, the urge to walk on returns. Lifting one foot then the other you take more weary steps on and on.

It soon became noticeable that your father was leading you steeper and steeper up a hill, making the walking all the more exhausting. The remnants of sweet taste in your mouth gives you the motivation to carry on. With each step upwards, it is almost as if you can feel the wind grow stronger and air grow colder as you enter into more exposed higher ground and the trees begin thin out. You wander why your father is leading you up here, but you trust him enough not to need to question his motives.

By the time you reach what you perceive to be the top, you feel your eyelids, heavy from tiredness and clumps of snowflakes, begin to close and your head droop, ready to sleep. You both stop and stand, staring up and the clouded sky. Then, slowly turning your small head, you scan the grown below. It is then that you notice, not far into the distance, a faint orange glow.

With great excitement, you reach for your father to show him the evident signs of life, hope, saviour. In your frantic and tiresome state, you manage to shout something untellable, with your arm outstretched, hovering manically in the air. Your father smiles, a genuine smile, and explains to you that this is why he lead you up here. He carefully calculates how best to reach that faint orange glow, since when you drop back through the tree-line it’ll no longer be so clear as to how to get there. Eventually, he grabs your wrist and begins to run down the slope.


You both find yourselves almost tumbling down through the snow. You roll down, laughing with complete relief. You can forget about the unbearable cold and exhaustion, because soon, it will all be over. No longer do you hold the fear that you could die out here. The terrain soon begins to flatten out, and you’re no longer able just to fall downwards, but you’re still laughing to yourselves as you trudge through the snow. It’s not long before you reach a ploughed road into the small town which lies ahead. The road is iced-over and you tread with some care. Not a single car passes as you walk on.

The decadent yet rusted clock in the centre of the town looms above you, informing you it’s 4 o’ clock. You can only guess that this means 4 in the morning since there’s not a sole present and there is a beautiful, unprecedented silence in the arctic air. Numerous questions begin to plague both your minds . How long will it be before the people of this town awaken? Would it be acceptable to knock on the door of a house and request assistance at such an our? Eventually, you both decide to wait.

It may be for only two hours that you wait, but these two hours are surely the most disturbing you have experienced in your life-time. The fear which agitated you earlier renters your troubled mind as you sit curled into a foetal position on the iced road-side of this lonesome town. You lie, perfectly still so that, above the sound of your gentle breaths, you can here the rapid beat of your heart. You listen, as focused as possible until you begin to hear distant noises. Wild dogs howl and the steady beat of a bird’s wing seem to cut through the air. The sound of burdensome winter boots beats through your head, causing your eyelids to open to a darkened morning, ending this hideous adventure.