Ruyton Girls’ School - Scripsi 2015

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down the mountain, growing as it does, forming a hulking shadow of

snowflakes and mist. Then I’m sliding, slipping, rolling down the

slope and tripping in my haste, the wind’s wicked laughter echoing

down my spine.

Just before the imposing wall reaches me, the snow beneath my

feet cracks, collapsing. Releasing shards of threatening ice. Then the

storm of collected hail rains down on me. My feet lead me down the

slope, skis sticking in the icy snow, twisting my ankles and tearing at

tendons. My hands are busy doing anything possible to halt the

treacherous fall, eyes and mouth shut tight, the scream of terror and

agony bunched up inside of me.

I’m flipping, forwards, backwards, sideways. Powerless against

the influence of the accumulating terror. So many times I don’t even

know which way I’m turning, or if I’m even turning any more.

The fall ends and I’m trapped, suffocating in a cold so pure I can’t

breathe or think.

I shudder. Once. Twice. Again and again, each shudder rubbing

me raw.

I open my eyes but all I see is a coffin of snow.

Hold on, I think.

Hold on.

‘