The wind wrapped around her neck, pulling tightly until air seemed to come to her in only short, perforated gasps. She gripped her luggage trunk more securely and clambered up the steep, rather icy hill; at the top was her goal, an old, dilapidated cottage.

Her old life, her alcoholic parents, her bratty, obtrusive younger sister was behind her. Finally, she had someone that loved her. He would take care of her. That’s what He said in all those emails. She would finally see His milky skin, His copper hair, His sandy brown eyes. He would finally touch her bruised cheek, kiss her aching bones, cover her completely and warm the soul that had for so long been encased in a protective sheath of ice.

Her trunk thudded loudly against the door as she paused to turn the knob. The smell of booze nearly knocked her down. He sat at the table, His eyes a dark, watery black, his hair a deep, bloody red. He grinned, and her the ice on her bones shattered, slicing her from the inside out.

“You actually came,” He said.