The Cold Place II

The hairs on both his forearms suddenly rippled like so much grain being kicked about beneath an angry thunderhead.

Cold.

"No. No, not yet. Not yet dammit!"

Kyle picked up the pace, not quite a run, no longer a brisk walk. He was beginning to panic.

The ambient sound all around him started to smudge around the edges, as if some gigantic pastel-dusted thumb was taking the individual sounds, one by one...

(the roar of a jet overhead became a gnat's buzz)

and pressing them to the ground,

(a terrier in the Morgensens front yard became all motion, no noise)

breaking their membranes

(the buzz of passing cars faded into inconsequential motion)

forcing their liquid, glistening essence

(his respiration was heard, but as through thick cotton)

to overrun their natural boundaries

(the soft feet-on-wet-sand crunching of blood beating against the stretched flesh of his tympanii - marched over the hill and was gone)

and become indiscernable.

Silent.

Cold.

His sense of self was draining out of him, like water racing out of a hot tub on a cold day.

Cold.