New Year's Eve

A few nights before new years, basking beneath the pale white snow, you asked me the silliest of questions: “What is my favorite color?”  

Then I: “Why – is it not green?” 

“Correct.” We continue walking. “What was my dream as a kid?” 

“A sailor, maybe.” 

A chuckle slipped from your lips. “I wanted to be an excavator.” 

I halted my steps after hearing an answer. Your eyes reflected genuinity and it would’ve been a sinful lie to admit I wasn’t holding back a laugh. “What was the motivation behind such childlike wonder?” 

You stopped, turning back to face me. Your cheeks were flushed to a shade of orange warmer than the leaves of autumn. “Don’t know. I guess heavy machines seemed invincible to seven year old me.” 

“You wanted to be invincible?” 

“Yes.” A long pause. “I wanted to be able to gouge through the soil with my bare hands and remain standing amidst cyclones and tempests.” Your tone turned odd as the last sentence was spoken, somehow surreal. A singular piece of cigarette is then found after you rummaged through your mess of a purse. As the lighter is rolled to light, you deliberately let the blunt metal and flickering flames inflict pain to your thumb before the fire is properly ignited to light the smoke. And I stood frigid to watch until we dissipated into smoke.

Sofia is a student based in Indonesia who consumes mainly horror media despite being deadly afraid of the supernatural. Her work often revolves in the theme of grief and martyrdom with a hint of vampiric lesbianism for self-indulgence.