~Written 2022/2/16, to cope.
CONTENT WARNING: Mentions of suicide, and maybe a little horny.

My breath escaped my lips in little puffs— desperate to join the fog in the cold morning air. My hands were numb, both from forgetting gloves as I trekked deep into the forest, and from clutching the rope I’d brought with me for so long. It was sturdy enough, something I’d found lying around in the garage— having no recollection of where it had come from. I pondered this for a moment— does anyone mean to own rope? It’s one of those things that simply seems to appear without our knowing. After which it hides in the dark corners of our homes, crouched in wait for the day it may be used— should it ever come.

Either way, the result was the same for me— I was going to hang myself with the rope that morning. I’d found a good, sturdy tree to tie it to; a sullen old oak that seemed as if its branches were great arms outstretched to embrace something unseen. Or, perhaps, to embrace a dying soul. It was almost too perfect, a branch even jutted out into the center at just the height I needed. The cold, however, made my preparations difficult. I lost count of how many times the knot came undone in my hands, my stiff digits lacking the dexterity for the task.

Just when I seemed to get the knot right, a blur of black and silver rushed towards me. I briefly wondered whether this specter was Death itself before I found myself pinned to the trunk of the sullen oak, with a knife at my neck. A woman, clad in a black dress and pointed cloak that gave her the appearance of a raven, stared daggers into my soul— which were almost as sharp as the one she pressed into my neck.

“Do you want to die?” She growled, unblinking.

I nodded, and shakily raised the hand holding the noose in response. The knot came undone, allowing the end of the rope to fall pitifully to the ground. I shut my eyes, and grit my teeth— sure that this would be my end. Instead, I felt the knife abandon my throat, and the rope in my hand being tugged. After a brief moment I opened one eye, cautiously, to find the woman walking around the other side of the tree, rope in hand.

Before I could say anything, she had snatched the other end of the rope from my hand, and tied it firmly around my chest— I was now bound to the sullen old oak. With one hand she raised my chin, forcing me to look into her eyes as she spoke again. Her voice reminded me of the cold air around us, and chilled me just the same.

“You don’t want to die, I can see it in your eyes. They’re just like a rabbit’s— scared, confused, and ready to run the moment things go wrong.” As she spoke I couldn't help but notice that her breath, unlike mine, couldn't be seen in the cold. Did it fail to warm the air? How?

I opened my mouth to protest her claim— but the cold, sharp blade pressed itself against my throat once again. It was colder than both the air, and her voice— as if it were not made of steel, but ice. I promptly shut my mouth, not wishing to know whether or not the knife would freeze my blood, once exposed.

“Hush, little rabbit. I don’t need to hear your rebuttal— I’m going to make you admit the truth. You don't want to die.”

I struggled against the rope, testing its strength and whether or not I had a chance of escaping. No matter how much I moved, whether I used my chest, arms, or even my legs to push myself over it— it held me firmly in its stubborn grasp.

The knife pressed further into my skin, greedily drawing blood as it trailed across my neck. I wasn't sure if I was glad to find that it didn't freeze. The woman leaned in, whispering softly into my ear “Say it.” She waited quietly for my response, holding her breath.

I only shivered in response, whether this was from the air, the knife, her voice, or some deeper, primal fear— I did not know.

“No?” She whispered into my ear again, keeping her head there as she trailed the tip of the knife the rest of the way across my neck, before pulling it away. It left a chill in its wake that refused to warm, even after it had left. “This little rabbit’s more stubborn than I thought…” She said, sounding almost giddy at the thought, as she stepped back and looked me over. 

I met her gaze with one of anger. I wanted her to either kill me, or leave me to end my life with my own hands. This game had only given me doubts, a mental infestation which I would exterminate in only another day's time. “Please, just-” 

She answered by slamming her knee into my abdomen, and knocking the wind out of me. It felt as if a rush of cold air had been forced into my body, and now even my blood ran cold. I doubled over, at least, as much as I could while still held tightly by the rope— and gasped for air.

With a cold hand on my chin, she lifted my head up again. “Say it, little rabbit.” She stared quietly for a moment, seemingly allowing me to catch my breath. The look on her face was one of feigned pity which barely contained her elation. Clearly, the pause was for her benefit— buying more time to drink in my pain— rather than to allow me some brief respite. “Say ‘I want to live.’”

“I…don’t…” I managed to reply between heavy breaths.

“You do. You just need someone to show you.” She said almost mockingly, in a tone one would use to speak to a child. “Here.” She placed the knife somewhere in her cloak, which appeared almost as if to move on its own— like a wing— before closing again. My eyes cautiously followed her hands, and I tried once again to free myself as they began wrapping around my neck. But the cold caused me to shiver, and slowed my movements. Her hands didn't squeeze though, they simply rested over my neck, as if they were no more than a chilly scarf.

I glared at her. If she was giving me another chance, I wasn’t going to take it.

She smiled sweetly. “Just remember that it was you who made it hard, little rabbit.” Her hands began to squeeze, with the force of something much stronger than any human on this earth.

I tried to draw in a breath, but found myself unable to do so. Then again. All that came was a startled choking noise. I gasped, and tried to push her away— but my upper arms were firmly tied to the tree, and my lower arms could do little more than bat uselessly against my assailant as she continued to squeeze. I sluggishly kicked against her with my legs, but she stood as firm as a statue, looking down at me with that sweet smile as my vision began to fade. Everything seemed to grow farther and farther away until, finally, it was too far off to see— and I lost consciousness.

I came to some time later, finding myself standing before the sullen old oak tree with the rope in my hands. I was warm, save for my hands, which resented their glovelessness. I brought a hand to my neck, feeling for any signs of cuts or bruises— but found nothing of the sort.

I dropped the rope, and whispered to no one but myself as I walked away;

“I want to live.”