My stiff arms hit the metal of the door as I force it open, against the chilled fist of wind, pounding hard upon the glass windows and then equally upon my face and forearms. It had to be below 50 degrees, but I had hoped that the cold could help me feel again. Feel something. Unfortunately, this ice only froze my fingers, leaving my body as numb as my mind.
Later, as I rid my machine of the cloth concealment, protecting the scars laced into my skin. The water boils as I examine my life-lines, these battle scars, in the mirror and can only cringe in thought of the disappointment drowning the faces of those I care about most: their eyes drooping down with the weight of eyebrows, creased diagonally, half shock and the other half burning discontentment. They purse their lips and stab my eyes with their daggers, when I chuckle nervously.
I shake my head of these thoughts from my speculation and step into the steam, hoping the heat could help me feel again. However, the fire does not scorch my body, nor incinerate the emptiness, it only slides down the marble sculpture my body feels to be (equivalent to the concrete barrier that builds behind my eyes)