The metal began to bend, and then the board jerked and separated from the crosspiece with a groan of protest, the nails sticking out sharp and bright against the brown of the wood. Helen felt the frigid air against her cheeks as the storm rushed into the tiny room, whipping and dumping great white flakes of snow all around her. She struggled to her feet and kicked at the loose board as best she could. It jerked out still farther from the top crosspiece, and then fell with a thump to the ground outside.

The wind beat at her nearly naked body as she pressed herself desperately into the thin opening, the rough wood tearing at her breasts and tender stomach. There was no more than ten inches of space, and for a moment she thought it was not enough, that fate would tempt and then yank the rug out from under her ruthlessly. Then her hips were through and she fell out into the soft, cold depths of new snow outside the shed, into the screaming face of the storm.

There was no time to rest. With the full fury of the wind upon her, she struggled to her feet, ignoring the dull pain in her side and forearms, trying to ignore the frightening sensation in her feet (like there’s nothing THERE but bloody stumps) and calves. It was so hard now to keep focused on what to do; so many different things descending upon her head like flies, buzzing about the confines of her mind, confusing her thoughts. The house was in front of her, a misty shape that she knew meant safety, real safety. That was where she could lie down, only there.

She lurched towards it, keeping her eyes focused on its shape through the snow. It seemed to be the only thing that kept the flies away. She still heard them buzzing, throwing themselves against her skull, but they weren’t able to get in, not yet. Gusts of wind buffeted her body with terrific force, and several times she almost fell, but she knew somehow that if she allowed herself to do that, it would be all over. The snow would claim her like a long-lost lover coming home to bed. Even now it sucked at her feet, pulling at them, trying to trip her and send her tumbling down into the emptiness that waited just out of reach.

The house was closer now. She could make out the deck, even the front steps. The Jeep sat at the foot of them, its white sides spotted with brown rust like dried blood. She was bleeding still, she knew. It dripped down her arms, a warm, sticky mess. My life, dripping away. She felt it leaving her, and the flies were buzzing louder and louder around her head. She began whispering softly. “Still screaming…” Her lips were numb and clumsy forming the words. Why was that? It was hard to remember.