I get up from my bed reluctantly removing my blanket. Rubbing my eyes and shivering in the cold I trudge to the toilet for the fourth time in the night cursing my bladder, the cold and this damned place. The next morning, I wake up with a giant rock inside my throat and chills down my body. I have officially fallen sick for the first time in this dreaded place.
I've always thought that I was a winter child, but until I came here to this dratted city at the peak of winter without a home or a blanket, I didn't know what winter is. I froze on the first afternoon, and spent an extraordinary amount of money on a blanket. After that, things seemed to become much better until yesterday when temperatures dipped and my life turned upside down. Without a heater in the room, no amount of cowering under my once warm blanket seems to take the chill away. Even with two sweaters, two pairs of socks, a scarf and a hat, the cold stays put. It is inside me now, the chill, and it refuses to leave.
There's something about the cold that really gets to you. Heat annoys, getting your shackles raised at the slightest of provocation. But the cold is different. The cold enters your soul and lodges itself deep within. It sucks out every ounce of your happiness, reminding you perpetually that you are nothing more than an under-developed animal. You can't think happy thoughts or remember happy memories, your laughter fades away and your smiles are forced. At the end, you are pitched into the very deepest despair. Add the young, nouveau riche of this place, and you have the perfect recipe for the most miserable time of your life.
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