Ice coursed through Damien’s veins as he pulled his hand from the needle. He let out a pressed moan as the pain followed. The needle seemed so innocuous, before he touched it. He should have known better – you don’t stumble your way through a witch’s cabin without finding something you shouldn’t. Looks can be deceiving – how many times had his mother told him?
Damien sucked his finger, attempting to staunch the blood rushing out his capillaries. It occurred to him the smartest thing he could do right now would be to leave. Leave before the witch came back and saw he was trespassing. How many awful stories had he heard of witches like her? Of her?
Yes, it was time to leave, even if he was feeling a bit woozy, a bit frozen. Literally – it wasn’t some reaction to the pain, he felt as if he was turning to ice. His legs struggled as if each movement created shards that stabbed deeper into his joints. He tried to squeeze his hands together for warmth but they were each colder than the other. Damien pushed his way towards the mirror, hoping for some small affirmation that he wasn’t imagining it all.
And it’s there, holding the mirror, gazing in horror at his icy complexion, that Damien froze completely.