The ice crept into his vein like a gentle lover. He smiled despite the pain. It was always welcome in this crumbling hell of his. It was always better than the fire. Soon he would be paralyzed by the ice. Decaying more and more, inch by inch until he would float away on the wind like a piece of dust.
He would've cried. He did the first time. But now he was stronger. That was the point of the pain, right? So he waited it out, laid out upon his unkempt bed in his untidy room that seemed to hold its breath for him. Hoping, wishing he would resurface from the icy wonderland.
But he sat there paralyzed, unmoving, dead. He didn't blink, his breath was catching. The ice kept crawling in his veins. The sweet creature delicately caressing his shielded skin. He'd done it so many time, what did he have to fear? This time, he should've feared. When the fire goes to your heart, it just burns with a passion. When the ice gets to your heart, the fire burns out and your heart is ice. And no longer is there a person, but a prison. A prison of ice.