An earthquake had stricken William's nerves. The seams that he managed to keep knotted and interwoven were beginning to unravel and loosen like a thread being pulled out of a sweater. It was like the mental dots that were once connected were being shuffled around in multitudes. Nothing showed his confusion more than his hands methodically massaging his temples; back hunched over and his eyes shut so tight that his pale-white face flushed red. Confusion and desperation had set in deep. They grabbed ahold of him and would not let go.

The salty taste of a teardrop was married to its warmth. It entered his mouth through a gap in the right corner of his mouth, which was half open from gritting his teeth. In all the years he had sobbed alone in his bed in the darkest of nights, he could not recall having ever tasted a tear. The nature of his present situation began to paint a lavish picture of his past. The relative safety and predictable routine of his life in the room was becoming a pleasurable dream. One side of him longed for it and the other side hated it. The pain within him burst out in short, helpless groans as he fell to his knees.

He felt in his mind an equal mixture of darkness and light, each one fighting for control. William thought for a second that his body would split in two, one choosing to continue into the unknown and the other choosing to tear himself apart with glass from a broken mirror. Clarity seemed all too out of reach. That is until he released the grip from his head and gazed up at the ceiling fan light. The dust particles danced around so slow that time itself had surely stopped. As William gazed upward with mouth open and eyes red from tears, the dancing dust returned him to a memory of when the snow had fallen by his window.

"It's called snow, boy," said a younger, less harsh-sounding Father.

William, staring in awe outside his little window, quickly inquired, "What's that?"

"When it gets cold enough, the rain freezes and falls like that. It has to be really cold for it to happen, though. It usually ain't that cold around here. The first time it's happened in probably, I'd say, about seven years."

The way the snow fell was a soft and gentle swaying . It was like powder, flying on the wind and bringing it's frigid temperature with it to the ground below. Some even made their way into William's room. One of them came through the opening and darted for William's arm, as if it were intentionally welcoming him to that new experience, and laid upon it for a few seconds before melting into a cold drop of water.

"You know," Father said, "there's this thing people do when there's enough snow-fall. You can roll a whole bunch of that stuff into a big ol' ball and stack 'em on top of each other. You put some sticks in it for arms, put a couple rocks in it for eyes, put a carrot in there for a nose. They call it a snowman."

"A snowman? I wanna make one! Can we, Father?" William asked in pure excitement.

"I don't think we'll get enough snow for that, boy. Whenever it does snow, it usually melts by next afternoon," Father said, his hand patting William's shoulder in consolation.

"Awwww. But it sounds so fun!" William looked up at him with eyes of disappointment and then he looked down at his crossed legs, grabbing his forehead with his hands and beginning to massage it.

"I'll tell you what, Will, if enough snow falls tonight, I'll bring some inside and we can make one those Snowmen right here in your room."

"Why not outside? We never go outside, ever!" William said as he dropped his hands and yelled towards the snow on the other side of his window. He was answered only by the quiet, cool gust of air that seemed to calm him. Father stood up, looking at the young child before him. He took William in his hands and picked him up, letting out a small grunt with the initial lift. Then, he walked over to the window.

"Get on my shoulders, boy," said Father as he propped him up, "c'mon now, stand up and get a good look!"

William clumsily stood up, body shaking from his lack of balance. A boy his age would normally have decent coordination. William's basic understanding of that skillset amounted to the occasional shoulder stand and a simple walk from living room to bedroom. If he were to see a bicycle or skateboard in that moment, he almost certainly would have asked, "What's that?" That was not his first shoulder stand, but it was his first shoulder stand inside his room, so close to the window that looked outside. When he felt secure enough, William reached out of the window with both hands. The ice-cold breeze would make anyone back off and light the fireplace, yet William reached out happily; almost lunging for it. The little flakes of crystalized rain touched his hands and arms, and some had fallen on his nose and eyebrows. The breeze whizzed through his hair and forced a gratifying feeling of passionate freedom. Even for only a single minute, being held up to that window and being touched by an outside force, so foreign and magical, it was the finest minute he'd ever experienced.

"Stick out your tongue!" Yelled Father.

William stuck out his tongue and waited for the powdery snow to land. When one finally did, he waited for a second one before closing his mouth and feeling the cold stuff melt into fresh water. It was the best tasting water he'd ever drank. He did it again.

"It's so good, Father! Try it!"

"Alright boy, I think that's enough for tonight," said Father as he picked him up and set him back down on the ground, "I think it's time for bed."

Reluctantly, William agreed. When Father left the room, William got up out of his bed and sat with his legs crisscrossed. He stared up at the window and admired the falling snow the entire night. Even the bitter cold that had engulfed the room through the window had barely phased him. He simply breathed out and smiled at the clouds his breath would make through the brisk air.

"Con-din-say-shin," he sounded out, "vap-o-ray-shin." He put up his hand to his mouth, mimicking the time he saw Father holding a cigarette, and pretended to smoke.

The stranger's voice rang through the air at William. "Memories that aren't so terrible have a way of pushing you forward."

When the memory ceased and reality flowed back, he felt the will to get off his knees and stand. He grabbed the hammer, turned around towards the mirror, and threw it forward. It glided through the air, twisting around in a vertical, circular pattern. William had used a strength within himself he had not been aware of and he wondered if the handle or the head would hit first. The glass shattered and the top of it flung up in its swivel and threw some of the pieces into the air. The head hit first and with incredible force.

He felt a sticky proudness come over him. He had never been so violent towards anything by sheer anger. It was not the same as a nail through a neck in self-defense or a hammer upon a door handle in desperation. It was the shattering of glass through his own will that made him realize his own temperamental limit. He picked up a large, jagged piece of glass. The small and shy bristles of a beard reflected from his chin. He thought of how easy it would be to end everything right there.

'Easy way out.'

The glass hit the floor when he dropped it, landing by the hammer. He picked up the tool and admired its utility. It seemed to be his friend, aiding him on his journey that would otherwise be completely lonesome. Careful not to step on the glass, he paced calmly to the door. It was like he had released a deep fear or hatred within that helped to bring out a better state of mind. The door opened easily, and William looked out into a large room that smelled of mold. The walls were lined with many machines half the size of a refrigerator. He saw clothes laying on tables in the middle of the room. There were dozens of shirts, pants, socks, and sweatpants. They were all the same and looked just like his own.

He walked up to the piles and patted them, smiling. It wasn't food or water, yet it made William feel relieved. He had found something he hadn't even realized he wanted. New clothes, freshly washed and dried. Free of the stains and the smell of blood and sweat that reeked on his own. He took his shirt off and grabbed a new one, bringing it up to his face and inhaling the sweet smell of detergent, masking out the spoiled air around him. He put it on and enjoyed the fact that it was just a bit too large. Then he swapped his sweatpants for a new pair. His bare feet became excited as he made way for a pair of white cotton socks. He sat down and massaged his aching feet for a while before slipping them on slowly, relishing every second of the act. There was hardly anything that felt better to him than a fresh pair of stockings over cold feet.

He laid down on a pile of shirts he grabbed off the table. He was tired and had thought to himself that he would lay down for just a little while, tucked into a corner beside one of the machines.

"I'll just close my eyes for a second," he mumbled to himself.

Before long, he had fallen asleep. He dreamed of nothing important; mostly of snow falling on him as he ate strawberry ice cream. It was a nice dream, full of the pleasurable and simple things in life that provide an escape from the true terror of reality. He jolted up after a while, not sure of how long he had drifted off for. He woke up confused and groggy, though after a few minutes he began to feel rested. He was surprised that he had been left undisturbed by the broomsticks, Father or some other nasty thing. He had been there, completely vulnerable and exposed, for quite a while he felt. Although, it could have been only a few minutes; maybe an hour. He rubbed his eyes for a while before finally standing up and retrieving his hammer from the table.

He rummaged through the quickly fading dreams about snow and ice cream and wondered just how spectacular it'd be to experience it for real. It was so easy in his dreams but in reality, it was like an unreachable prize; a piece of pie dangling in front of him by a string, egging him on an endless trek to nowhere.

'It's so much easier to dream,' he thought, 'than to live. To really live.'

He thought of others who may have lives of unparalleled luxury. People who could have anything they want at any time and go anywhere they please. That kind of life was so different than his own that it seemed to shock his brain by just thinking about it. It was hardly feasible to imagine a life without hardship forever yanking on the pant leg of whoever's living it.

'Perhaps,' he thought, 'that doesn't exist.'

He knew he would be fine with something infinitesimally simpler than luxury, as long as it was away from Father. So far away that it circled back and over that awful place, out again as far as he could possibly conceive. Out to where snow was made or where the flying reds lived. There, perhaps with a friend even, he could sit down outside under the sky and dream.

'Hope my friend won't mind the cold.'

His memories were vast and, for the most part, unwelcoming. His dreams, however, were both vast in scope and promising of good things to come. Sometimes, it was hard for him to distinguish between the two. Memories and dreams had a way of colliding with one another after so long to dwell on them. He didn't mind it because he knew that whether they were real or not, they were good ones to keep him occupied. In between the harshness of his life and the times that made him weary, it was nice to dream. He even dreamed of the man who had saved him from the stretcher. The man's words spoke to him.

"Memories that aren't so bad have a way of pushing you forward."

He felt like new in his clean attire and felt much better after his rest. William began to look around for somewhere to go but there were no doors there. There had always been another door and the feeling of entrapment creeped up within him. William knew that backtracking was out of the realm of possibility but the urge to get moving was palpable. Something strange hung down from the ceiling in the corner of the room, opposite the machines. A small rope and a wooden handle shaped like a cola bottle were hanging there with a slight swinging motion. He went over and grabbed it, tugging softly at first. He noticed the ceiling dipped in a bit and would move with each tug. He pulled a bit harder and then harder still, until it opened. He moved backward with it as a long ladder came down onto the floor. It was dark up there. It was like looking into a night sky, absent of the moon or stars. He stepped onto the ladder without much hesitation but with immense caution. He made it halfway up the ladder, his head poking up over the top and into the blackness above and tossed up the hammer. His sweatpants dropped a little and he wondered if he'd grabbed one's that were a bit too stretched out to fit him.

'Weird', he thought, pulling them up with his left hand and struggling to hold on with the other. He then felt something pull on them behind his knee.

He looked down in reflex but saw nothing below him. He simply froze there on the ladder like he was waiting for something to appear there and snatch him up. He looked back towards the darkness and took another step up, but something grabbed the back of his knee and it's fingers wrapped around his entire leg. He looked down as he jumped in fear and again saw nothing. He started to take another step until he noticed something in the darkness ahead of him. There were two dimly glowing dots of yellow. They floated there and seemed to stare at him. He looked down below to nothing but an empty room and back up again to the yellow dots. This time, after another step up, his leg was grabbed and yanked down which almost made William slip completely off the ladder. He had both arms on the ledge and looked over his shoulder. There was a sliding sound when a green broom slid on the ground under the ladder. William's eyes bulged at the sight and he scrambled to run up, not forgetting the eyes in the room above which caused him to freeze and close his own with his head pressed against the ladder's step, in frustration.

"It's either up or down, Will. Up or down." He said to himself.

He heard more sliding below him and he took one last look at the ground. More brooms were being slid towards him, each one more violently hurled than the last. Seven, eight, nine, twelve of them; and more were being tossed until the ground below was starting to look like a green sea. The breathing down below was getting louder and louder until William was able to get into the room. Out of breath, he pulled the rope and ladder towards him to close the latch. He struggled a fair bit to do so, feeling the rope slip in his weak grip a few times. Long fingers gripped the ladder as he struggled to pull. The clicking and clacking of the broomsticks penetrated his mind and he fought hard to keep control of himself. He leaped back, pulling up the ladder with him and feeling it rip from the hands of the things below. It finally closed shut and he fell back onto the ground.

'Oh god,' he thought, 'Oh fuck.'

He remembered the glowing eyes behind him. Thankfully, they'd disappeared. He wondered if they were even there in the first place. If they were simply a product of his thirst and hunger getting to him. Or was it the broomsticks below? William felt his stomach become cramped and his bladder full. He'd have to relieve himself there, in the dark room with no sure way out. He thought he had seen the eyes come back for a second like they were watching him and judging. Feeling for the hammer by the ladder, the texture's grip met his fingers and William sighed in relief. Once he had it in hand, he began to walk in the direction of where the eyes had been. It was a long, slow walk. The broomsticks were fresh in his mind and the yellow eyes that were in there with him weren't helping.

'They were so close,' he thought, 'that could have been it. Done for. Dead.'

The air was still and stagnant. Air did not circulate well up there and the floorboards were hard and silent under his steps. He'd begun to wish for light of some kind, even the smallest amount would do.

"It'd be nice to see where I'm going..." Then, he felt the rough and hard texture of brick against his outward reaching hands.