Fiction Issue #3

Shangri La

Saturday, 10, October 1992. The headline reads: "Little Marie's Body Found in a Ditch on Route 51." The end to some kind of manhunt, I thought. Last week they wrote about the 5-year-old girl being kidnapped, taken from outside of a gas station of all things. She was there alone, and some guy took her into his car. The gas station had surveillance tapes, so the kidnapper's blurred face was plastered on the magazine stands three days ago. These stories come so often it makes me laugh at this point. Not aloud, just quietly to myself.

I read the newspaper to uphold the strange notion that I should know what's topical at the time, but really, I just look for the messed-up storied for my own amusement.

I kept reading, skimming through the headlines, until this came up in front of me. "Young Man Found Dead in Body-Shaped Hole." I kept reading:

The young man, in his early 20s, was found dead yesterday in a human-shaped hole about 7 feet into the ground. His body was found in the woods outside of Redhill. "He appears to have starved to death," the police stated in a short press conference this morning. The man was camping with one of his friends. Apparently, the man refused to leave the hole and eventually starved to death, according to his friend who is currently being held without bail as the top suspect in this bizarre murder case.

I'm shocked that this is not front-page material. I guess the manhunt is more interesting to people.

I looked up from the paper to the carton of juice I had in front of me. I took another gulp and put it back in the fridge.

The entire room suddenly felt cold, really cold. I had mostly forgotten the dream, but I remembered the cold. I checked all the radiators and they were cold as ice. That's not entirely unexpected, however; the landlord here is horrible at keeping things working. I'd call him, but it's still just 5:30 A.M.

I walked back to my room to put on some clothes; I was still naked from the shower. Walking through the hallway outside my room, my feet felt like icicles, numb to the brutally cold floor. Yesterday's clothes hung on the chair next to my desk. I put a T-shirt on, some new underwear and a pair of jeans, but I was still freezing. So I looked through my closet for something and I found a sweatshirt to throw on over my T-shirt. All bundled up, I decided to pass the time by reading at my desk.

After about an hour, the cold got brutal. I tried to get outside, since the sun was shining and it looked like it wasn't as bad out there. When I reached the front door, I put on my overcoat and tried to turn the knob. It had frozen shut. My hand burned from the cold when I touched it.

This didn't make any sense. It can't be this cold in here. It's impossible. I banged on the door with my fist and began to scream for help. Nobody heard me; it just got colder in the apartment. Suddenly, I collapsed to the floor.