My hands are cold and sticky from rolling out and softening the frozen dough. Everything I touch gets coated in sticky sugar. I pick up a spoon and start to ladle pieces of dough onto a platter.

DING!! The first batch is done!

I open up the oven and the familiar sweet smell of baked cookies drifts up my nose. It take them out and put in the second batch.
TIC, TOC. I wait, and wait. After a while I start to feel a little cold so I go upstairs to get my jacket. While I’m upstairs my phone rings and I get distracted texting my friend.

10 minutes later….
DING, DING, DING. Omg!! The cookies!
I run downstairs into a smokey kitchen. I open the oven and pull out the platter with black ‘hokey pucks’ on it.

We’ll maybe cookings not for me.

My feet went numb hours ago, and now they feel like solid chunks of ice that I have to carry through the unending snow. My clothes are tattered and threadbare, and the lack of heat has made my skin turn to a shade of purple.
At least I escaped…
But what if this wasn’t the right choice. I haven’t eaten in days and yet I still feel like I’m going to throw up.
Finally I give up. I just don’t have the will to go on anymore. I lay down in a soft patch of snow. It was almost nice mot having to worry about moving on anymore.
I lay my head down and my eyelids start to feel heavy, then I fell into a soft peacefull sleep, and even though I needed to go on, I knew I wasn’t going to wake up again.