Gently he pulled my hands into his. His warm lips touched my knuckles. He blew onto my dead flesh. He vigorously rubbed my naked hand between his. Feeling began to return, and with it a measure of pain, the proof of life. He crossed my hands over my chest and pushed his body against mine, wrapping his long arms around me. I felt the delicious warmth of his breath against my neck.
He’s just using you, I told myself. He’s just using you to keep from freezing.
My parents had died in a fire. They had burned alive. Now I would die of cold. They by fire, I by ice. In the arms of the man who was responsible for both. A man to whom I was nothing but a burden.
You are young, he had told me. You have yet to hear it call your name.
I think now he was wrong. I think it had already called my name.
And now it lay with its arms enfolding me."
- The Curse of the Wendigo (via fruking-up-the-uk)