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Erika Petersen

Untitled

Ella Bagchi

Cold, thin air whisked through my nostrils and sliced across my face like the blade of a grim reaper. I could feel my toes numbing as I trudged upward in the snow. Gusts of snowy wind howled in my ears like a haunted chorus of wolves. The storm threatened to throw me off the mountain, into the sharp rocks so far below. I felt the storm and my own fear like liquid fire in my bones, seeping into my shivering veins. Jetstreams of ice pelted my eyes, making them water. My legs burned, but I kept climbing, fighting the unstoppable forces pushing me back. I kept climbing through the treacherous terrain ahead of me. I kept climbing the mountain, carrying the fear in my soul. I kept climbing because I had to. And then, suddenly, everything stopped. The howling wind became a soft murmur, a memory of what it once was. Sparkling snow fell sparingly and gracefully in calm flurries. My body ceased to burn, because I had stopped climbing. I had reached the peak of the mountain. I inhaled the fresh, still air and took in the panoramic postcard around me. The aggressively gray sky had melted into a serene blue that touched the majestic mountains surrounding me. A river weaved through the mountains, glazed over with a veneer of ice. I was enveloped in a surreal, freeing silence. Warmth bubbled in my heart up into my face, and I smiled uncontrollably. Frozen in time, I had never felt so warm.

• Category: Photography, Prose