Raw Truth Sears Deep

20260108

Written for Luna Asli Kolcu’s “Myths of Winter - Week 6” event.

If only Patrick hadn’t quarrelled with his father. Perhaps then he would’ve minded the rules about windows.
For he knew them well, like any child of the village. They were taught in nursery rhymes, skipping chants, and warning tales. By the time a child was old enough to break them, they knew very well that they shouldn’t! And the rules themselves were simple. Easy to mind.
Don’t gaze upon a frosted window.
Never ask a window a question.
Never, ever, smear blood upon a frozen windowpane.
Besides which, every house in the village had heavy wooden shutters, both outside and in, and all were latched snug against the cold from the moment anyone reported seeing frost on a pane, only opened once the thaw had set in proper. No risk of accidents.
Even Old Man Clancy’s empty house, waiting for a young couple to get married and claim it, had its windows firmly covered.
But the door wasn’t locked. Why would it be? Locking would just mean people couldn’t check on the place, give it a dust and make sure pests hadn’t made a home there.
Of course people knew that the children might go in. That was fine. Any child wandering ought to know how to behave themselves. They were welcome to play in the warm and relative quiet - so long as they cleaned up after themselves, and didn’t damage anything.
And in the autumn children had often played there. But with the air frosty and snow laying thick, nobody wanted to walk so far from their own home just to play. So the house sat empty.
Except for Patrick. For him the loneliness was invaluable. It gave him space from his father, and since his mother had vanished the two of them found lack of space led to arguing.
It wouldn’t be so bad, Patrick reflected, if only the stupid old clod would stop insisting mum had to be dead. It was, was silly! Imagine going out one autumn morning to pick berries, a bad storm blew up suddenly, and you just… died. No, mum would never be so careless.
She was still out there. Patrick was sure of it. Something must be keeping her from coming home. And with dad insisting she was already dead nobody would do anything!
Patrick prodded at the small fire he’d kindled and grumbled grown-up words that angry adults muttered when they thought children weren’t listening.
It was already night. He should go home. His father would be worrying.
But… right now, worrying his father sounded good. Served the dozy bear right for being wrong all the time! Patrick was practically a man - well, he’d be a man in four years, which was very close. So worrying about him was silly. So this oughta show dad. After all, here was snug enough. Proper bed and everything. No food, and lunch was wearing thin, but the bubbling fire of spite filled Patrick’s belly for now.
He’d stay the night. Maybe that’d learn his father some manners. Ha!
At that moment, frothing with righteous fury and aimless rebellion, Patrick’s gaze settled on the shutters by the bed.
He knew the rules. That’s why he undid the latch. In his current state rules itched dreadfully.
The thick layer of ice on the pane was near opaque; he could barely make out that it was dark.
Perhaps, if he’d shut the window then, it would’ve been alright.
But he leant close and whispered “Where’s mum?”
His breath misted on the pane… and the puddle of mist kept growing, spreading, until it covered the entire window and painted the ice an eerie white. Like snow. Like fresh bone.
Patrick gasped, his contrary mood quashed, and slammed the shutter closed.
It was a gnawing stomach, rather than worrying about what magics might be working above him, which left Patrick tossing and turning all night. By morning he was eager to go home. Hopefully his father would’ve made enough pottage for two.
If only Patrick had hurried home without checking the window. But he had to see. Had to convince himself that last night’s mistake was meaningless.
Dark shapes had formed in the ice. Smears… blobs… Patrick turned his head this way and that. Then gasped.
It was his mother. He was sure of it! She was… climbing? Arms out wide and hair flowing down her back, freed from its usual bun.
But where was she? The shapes were too vague, too blurry, for him to even guess.
Patrick knew the rules. That’s why he rushed to fetch a knife from the kitchen and prick his finger to smear blood across the ice. Hoping it would make things clearer. And it did; wherever the blood touched became like a finely drawn picture. Dirt, and rocks, and… water flowing… and…
His mother’s ragged corpse, picked clean, sprawled at the bottom of a gully, seared itself onto Patrick’s tender eyes, freezing him in place.
Then a voice whispered an old, old word which Patrick didn’t know meant “payment due”. He had no idea why the ice warped and rippled like a disturbed pond and a brilliant white hand, like ivory, like snow, like fresh-hewn bone, reached out of it.
But he understood the pain, and darkness, and why his eye sockets wouldn’t stop weeping.
Worst of all, the darkness left nothing to block out the horrible truth he’d paid for. No way to escape that image for even a moment.
Patrick had screamed himself hoarse by the time the door opened, a gust of cold air rousing him from his rasping sobs.
His father’s voice. A prayer and curse and apology all jumbled together. Strong arms wrapped Patrick in his coat and dragged him from the house, away from the watching window.
“D-dad.” Patrick’s fingers gripped his father’s sleeve tight. “I can’t, I… please make it go away!”
His father cradled him close and with equal parts love and sorrow murmured “I’m sorry, son. Raw truth never fades.”

Prompt was “Frozen windows in January show not reflections, but truths. Most people board them up until spring. But you need to know something badly enough to look. The frost writes answers to questions you haven’t asked yet. Once you’ve seen, you can’t unsee.”