Short Story - Ice Cold

Dean was born with a very cold heart.

It wasn't a figure of speech at all. It sounded as it should mean; he was born with a heart made out of ice.

Many interesting things happen in this world. And this was, perhaps, just another one of those interesting things. At least, it would be very much interesting to a person viewing Dean from a scientific point of view, for there certainly was no one else like him. For Dean, however, this icy heart of his spelled nothing but disaster and misery for what would be the rest of his life.

When something is made out of ice, the irrefutable fact would be that it could, and would melt under heat and temperature.

People say that when love comes into play, a warm feeling envelopes the heart, and the heart spreads blissfully through the body and warms the soul. When anger rears its ugly head, one would feel a rage so hot, it would  threatens to burst out of the body and explode into a thousand little pieces. Embarrassment would have his or her cheeks warm to the touch, and their heart would trip slightly with that embarrassment. The same would go for anxiety; blood would rush through the veins, and the heart would pound awfully hard.

And what all these had in common was the concept of heat.

Dean's mother found out very early as a result, that emotions were not healthy for Dean. As soon as Dean's skin began to glow with radiant happiness, his face would change, and a pained look would cross it. And she would have to harden her own heart and clamp down on her own emotions, place Dean back where she picked him up from, and leave the room, waiting for Dean to calm down and sink into a place devoid of warm emotions. Either he would do that, or he would cry pitifully, which was fine, since sadness did not have an ounce of heat in it. It was fine. It was healthy. It was all for his benefit.

Dean grew up without barely a few touches. His parents drove everyone far from him, warning them that they were not to make him feel. Dean was lonely, and he was cold. But that was alright, because it would definitely keep him alive. He appreciated one fact; it was that his parents never denied who he was. He was not normal, and he'd rather know that than assume his parents were cruel individuals that pleasured and delighted in seeing their only son suffer the fate of one with a cold heart. At times, when he thought of what his parents had done, love threatened to overwhelm his self and shatter his control, but he always reminded himself of how his parents had ignored him, had treated him in a facade of unkindness, and this love would always fade away.

It was best to have it that way.

He held a tight check over his life, over his emotions. When he looked into the mirror and saw the high nose, the clear blue eyes that were perpetually drooping , and the lips that were forever pressed tightly together, he sank into depression, knowing that that was the face of someone who could not care, could not love. Once or twice, he had run a hand across his tuft of auburn hair, and slammed his fist into the mirror, breaking his reflection with a crack that ran across the surface. He hated it, but he had no choice.

'Life is never fair; live with it.'

It was what his father used to bark to him. It certainly left him bitter and unsatisfied. Although Dean knew that this was truth, acceptance was not always rational.

When his parents died, he did not go to their funeral. He turned his sad eyes to the mirror in his bedroom, and simply sat there for the entire day. He did not want to remember them, he did not want to feel for them, lest their efforts all go down the drain and he simply drop dead on the floor right there and then. No, he would forget them, and that would be for the best.

And that was how Dean came to be, and he remained so until the present.

Dean was now twenty seven. Twenty seven years of not loving, not caring, not sharing. Sometimes, he felt that it was unbearable. He wanted to simply love, to experience it, and then die in the throes of such an experience. Sometimes, he thought that that might be a good thing. But he always stopped himself, because he had been taught that life was sacrosanct. He would live. And yet, he longed for something different. Something that would make him want to really live, and not this pathetic excuse of a life.

Life was methodical, monotone. He would go to work, and he would return. Occasionally, he would go shopping, bumping into people, and giving them cold, aloof stares that would automatically repel anyone from him. He had had twenty seven years to perfect that one look, and he did it very well.

Well, he did it amazingly, until he met her.

Her name was Ellen. He was walking along the aisle where they displayed their milk, and he was looking in the other direction, attempting to figure out if he should be getting Honey Stars or Koko Krunch. Just because he couldn't feel didn't mean he couldn't indulge himself in some cereal. As a result, he certainly was not paying attention to wherever his hands were traveling, blindly reaching out for a carton of milk.

'Hey! Watch where that hand's going!'

Dean was surprised, certainly, but his face did not show that fact as he turned quickly around and retracted his hand from where they were stretching to. If his imagination had not lied to him, he was pretty sure his hand brushed across something, and from the likes of it, it seemed as if it had brushed across this one woman.

'What do you think you're doing?'
'Reaching for milk, ma'am.'

Dean always found that being polite would steer him away from most confrontation and trouble, which would then save him the probable clashing with emotions.

'Do you always reach for them blind?'

She was pretty. Emerald green eyes, long hair of sandy brown, and a mouth with full lips that were currently quirked in amusement. No, she was not angry or miffed at him. She was.. amused. Dean could not figure out why, and his eyebrows furrowed. The woman smiled wider, and white teeth showed itself to him, and the already deep wrinkles, the ones that a person gets from smiling to much, deepened in her face.

'What's wrong?'
'Nothing, ma'am. I just do not understand why you are smiling.'

The woman patted him lightly on the back, and smiled at him again.

'You're polite. That's very nice.'
'I still don't understand.'

The woman shook her head, and let out a sound that could actually be a giggle, but Dean wasn't sure. After all, why would anyone giggle in his presence? A peculiar feeling nagged at his heart, and in fear, he clamped down on it immediately.

Casting a cold look at the woman, his look of confusion seemed to very quickly morph into one of someone who would like very much to be left alone at all costs, and this change in his expression and demeanor seemed to throw the lady off.

'I will be going now.'
'Hey, wait!'

The woman grabbed his arm, and he threw it off with a light shrug. She did not surrender, though, and grabbed his arm with her other hand, and made to spin him around even as he turned to go.

'Now, what did I do?'

Dean shook his head, indicating that it was nothing that she did.

'Then what's with that look?'
'It's not your fault, nor your business, ma'am. Now, if you would please release my arm?'

The woman stared into his eyes from a while longer, and again, the nagging feeling returned to his heart, and he tore his gaze away from hers. Even as he did, however, he could still hear her speaking, and he paid attention.

'Look, I don't know what it is, but I'm sorry if I said or did something offensive. I like you, though, you're nice. My name's Ellen. What about you?'

Dean hesitated a moment, but he could not ignore whatever it was that she said. Moreover, she had actually survived his stare down, and was still talking to him. That was something new. Even in his working place, where people constantly were around him, none of them dared approach him. And yet, this woman, this one person who had only met him for the first time, was not deterred by his look.

'Why?'
'Why what?'
'Why aren't you walking in the opposite direction? Why do you still look at me?'

This time, Dean was sure that Ellen giggled. Or rather, she laughed. It was rather loud, actually, and she released her grip on his arm, and slapped his shoulder with that hand instead. Dean was too perplexed to act, really.

'I just like you. You're nice, and, anyway, I tend to believe the best in a person. And, if I talk to someone, I have to look at them, don't I? Isn't it manners?'

That was how Dean met Ellen. And, to be honest to himself, Dean wasn't entirely sure why he decided to spend time with her from then on. Dean had replied to Ellen, and Ellen steered them to the counter, and each had paid for their individual purchases. Ellen offered to treat Dean to a coffee, and Dean, obviously confused beyond normal cognitive processes, had agreed. This had led to that, and numbers were exchanged.

It had been three months since they had last met, and Dean was, to say the very least, content. Content, and not happy, because every time he even came close to being happy, a sharp twinge in his chest would remind him that something was not right with him. Ellen knew there was something extremely odd about Dean; he smiled in a manner that seemed as if he had never smiled before in his life, and his laughter seemed rough and unused, hitching in an extremely unnatural way. At times, he would glare at her, and she would simply quirk her eyebrow at him, and he would seem to falter. She also noticed that on certain occasions, his large hand seemed to place itself on his chest, directly over where his heart was.

One time, Ellen had asked Dean if he was alright, and a look of pain flashed across his face, just for a moment. His lips pressed tightly together, then parted slightly, as if there was something he was struggling to tell her. Ellen waited, but the words never came, and Dean simply shut his eyes and shook his head. Ellen left it at that. He would tell her when he was ready to. And this was one of the reasons why Dean enjoyed her company; Ellen never pushed any further than she had to.

They were like the closest siblings ever. Company was enjoyed, and they tried to spend every free moment they had with each other, laughing (or in Dean's case, smiling) about the events in the life of the other. Ellen seemed to share all her thoughts and secrets with Dean, which made him feel guilty in turn. But as soon as he felt that, he told himself that she would not accept him for who he was, and a look of frost would screen over his eyes. And that would be that.

But of course, there are times, when even the most iron clad determination could be broken.

She had told him that she thought they were more than mere friends.

Dean had shook his head fervently, and told her they were friends. Very good friends, maybe even as close as brothers and sisters. She had looked at him with gleaming hope in her eyes, and he knew that unless he told her something that was entirely unacceptable, she would not give up. And therefore, he had summoned everything he had in him in the past, and slammed his walls into place again. They could not be, simply because he was who he was. He had been content, he had made her content, but he certainly could not make her happy, and he knew that she deserved to be happy.

The next time she contacted him, he told her that he was too busy, and had no time for her. He could hear the silenced shock on the other line of the phone, but he had not bothered to let it drag on for too long. Even though he knew that even hearing her breathe would make him content, he slammed his phone down and went back to typing on Excel sheets in his computer, tallying up the accounts that made up his work.

Ellen being Ellen, of course, went to his house next. He saw her, and she seemed to be guarding his door. Which was, of course, not what she was doing. Dean leaned on the establishment opposite his apartment as he saw her pacing the front of his door, and he knew what he had to do. Again drawing on practice and his old years, he walked towards her with the certainty and arrogance of someone who believed himself to be utterly correct and not a moment mistaken, and told her off. He had even drawn his palm across her face, and even now, he could feel her fingertips burning from where her tears had smeared on them as he drew his hand across her cheek.

'What is wrong with you, Dean? If you don't want that, then can we still be friends? Please? I want to laugh with you again. I want to see you. You and your forced smile.'

The voice mail ended with something that sounded like a choked sob on the other end of the line, and Dean's heart almost ended there and then. But misery and sorrow was not something that could melt his heart, and therefore, he lived.

But living as he was was a fate that was worse than death. Plus, distancing himself from her only made his heart hurt far more than it would have should he have been with her. With her, he was content, and he could easily hold a check on his emotions as his mind was not too preoccupied with matters that would take all his concentration. But at this current point of time, he kept thinking of her, thinking of the tears that had stained her pretty cheeks, all because of him. Concern, care and everything else streamed through his head, and pinpricks of warmth touched him when he remembered her smile from before, and all this just made his heart ache. And he could think of nothing else, because this matter was simply overriding.

He knew where she stayed.
And he had decided perhaps, it would be of best interest if he simply told her the truth and allowed her to decide for herself.
There were times, he had been told, where truth was the greatest gift that a person could give to anyone, and Dean sincerely hoped that this was one of those times.

'Hi, Ellen. It's me, Dean. I was just wondering if you'd like to meet up. I'll understand if you don't, after.. what I've done. But.. I've got something I really want to tell you. It'll explain everything. Please.'

Saturday, nine in the night, five months and twenty seven days since Ellen and Dean had met, Dean sat down in a corner of a cozy coffeehouse, a place which was in utter contrast to his mood. His face was drawn and pale, and his eyes seemed to be full of shimmering tears that just didn't want to fall. Not a semblance of a smile tugged at his face. On the other hand, the coffeehouse was bustling with life, with people holding hands, laughing, and essentially just chatting and whiling time away. A bitter half smile crossed Dean's face, and that he could do very well.

The bell on the front door tinkled lightly, and Dean whipped his gaze towards that door, hoping. For a moment, his heart gave a little jump, and he winced slightly. But it would seem as if his heart hurt for nothing at all, for it was not Ellen who was at the doorway. Dejected, Dean drew his gaze downwards again, his hands starting the boring task of stirring his cup of coffee over and over again.

And then the door chimed again.

Dean peeked up, and the creases between his eyes relaxed as his eyes lay on the most comforting sight he had ever seen. Ellen, wrapped in a long trench coat of the darkest shade brown could be within transgressing into the world of black, her long hair swept backwards in a casual ponytail. But when she turned and saw him, he saw that her eyes reflected the same sadness that he knew his currently held. And he felt very guilty.

Raising a hand, he beckoned her, and she nodded, walking towards him with a light wave to the owner of the coffeehouse when he asked her if she would like to have anything.

'Later, Richard.'

Ah, her voice. Her beautiful voice. How long had Dean not heard it? Or rather, how long had Dean not heard a voice that was not one that was a choked sob? Dean dropped his head for a moment and closed his eyes, taking in a deep breath as she drew the chair opposite him back and dropped herself on it.

'Hey, Dean.'

Her voice was now nothing more than a soft whisper, and Dean took a small moment to revel in the sound of her voice, before he lifted his eyes and met with her green eyes that sought the truth.

'Hey, Ellen.'

Ellen nodded, and a smile slowly spread across her face again. Tentatively, she reached across the table, and slowly curled her fingers around the hand that did not hold the spoon he used to stir his coffee. A light squeeze, and a pang in his heart started once more. Slowly, he withdrew his hand from hers, but he refused to look at her face, for he knew what it was that he would see.

'I just wanted to tell you something, Ellen. I didn't want to leave.. us.. like this. I want you to understand. At least.. I want you to understand a little more.'

From his peripheral vision, Dean could see Ellen's almost imperceptible nod.

'I'm not normal.'
'You seem normal enough to me. Two hands, two legs, one head.'

Dean rarely heard forced laughter from Ellen; she always seem so genuine, so true, that Dean was for a moment, stunned.

'What is so not normal about you, that you had to totally shun away from me?'
'I have a heart of ice, Ellen.'

The words that he found so hard to say before were abruptly just tumbling out of his mouth, and Dean shut his mouth quickly afterward, knowing that it must have sounded insane. Ellen simply sat there, her left eyebrow raised.

'Of course you do. You slapped me. And you just went away.'
There was a tone of accusation in her voice, and Dean had to be honest, he knew that she had every right to. Nonetheless, he knew that in order to fully explain herself, he had to put an anchor on his emotions, to tell it like it was.

'I have a heart of ice, Ellen. My heart is literally made of ice.'
'Don't be absurd. If you've called me out just to give me this pathetic bit of excuse, I think it would have been better if you had ignored me. Perhaps then I would have a little better impression of you.'

Dean's eyes hardened, and his eyes went cold.

'How you've changed, Ellen. Why, just a while ago, you were pleading on my voice mail.'
'Who was the one pleading, now? I seem to remember that on my voice ma --- '

Ellen stopped abruptly, and looked embarrassed.

'I'm sorry, Dean. I'm sorry. You're right. I'm the one who called you. I'm sorry.'
'Do you want to hear me out?'

Ellen looked at Dean, and once more, like times before, his face had changed. Although, in the past, it was nothing but a fleeting instant. This time, the look stayed. This was a Dean that Ellen didn't know. This was a Dean that told her that he did not feel, or perhaps, could not feel. She was afraid of this Dean. He didn't seem human. And in reaction to that, she pushed her chair back, just slightly, but Dean saw it. And to compensate for this, he leaned forward, speaking softly, such that Ellen was compelled to lean forward as well.

'My heart. Is made. Of ice. A block of cold ice. Ice that can melt. Ice that will melt with heat. I cannot feel, or I will not live. I cannot be all warm and fuzzy, because I will not live. I cannot be angry, because I will not live through it. I cannot smile and laugh and be happy with all my heart, because I will not live. You, Ellen, are asking me to be happy, and I cannot do that without dying. Then, if I cannot exist while being happy, will you be happy with what you ask of me? You will not. And that is why I cannot grant what it is that you ask of me.'

Dean's voice was matter-of-fact, and every word that he spoke was now curt and exact, and exuded a logical, rational feeling. It was almost as if he were nothing but a robot, reciting what it was that he had been programmed to say.

'How?'
'I do not know.'

Ellen shook her head in disbelief, and Dean sought to press his point on.

'You wonder why I laugh in such an odd manner. You wonder why is it I press my hand to my chest at certain times. Do not deny it, I know it is so. A look of confusion and curiosity crosses your face every now and then, and I know what it means; I have just declined to answer it. I laugh in such an odd manner because I have never truly laughed before. I press my hand to my heart because it hurts when I am with you, because I am happy. I feel warm and happy. And that melts my heart, and it pains me. It reminds me that I cannot be normal.'

Dean leaned back in his chair, and stared at Ellen, the window to his soul shut tight.

'If it melts, I die. I cannot have that, because I value my life. I cannot have that, because it would make you sad.'

The last words were spoken with such certainty, such conviction that Ellen could not say anything. Nothing. It sounded utterly absurd, certainly, but she had never known Dean to lie. She had known him to hide, but never to lie. And he definitely did not look as if he were lying. Solemn and serious, his face had not a shred of amusement on it. Ellen gazed over his face, and shook her head slowly.

'You're not lying. I know that. But. How can you expect me to believe this?'
'What will you have me do?'

Ellen stared at him, and shook her head once more.

'I don't know.'
'Then you will simply have to believe me.'

And then Dean laughed, and Ellen was taken aback.

'My father told me, that 'life is never fair, live with it'. I can't say that's wrong, but somehow, it doesn't make things any easier, does it? Sometimes, I just wish I could feel. But I cannot. I must not. I wish my mind could be replaced with a robot, because then I wouldn't be able to feel. And then I would be able to live without feeling. As a matter of fact, I can do that, can't I? Replace my mind with a robot.'

All of a sudden, the chair scraping on the ground sounded, and Ellen stood, and walked over quickly to Dean's side over the table. Leaning down, she gave him a quick hug, and Dean stiffened.

'Please. Don't do this.'
'Ellen, I have to. I can't take this anymore.'
'But you won't be you anymore, Dean. I'd rather have you as a friend, than have you as nothing more than an existence, and nothing else!'

Dean quickly pulled himself from her, despite her strength and determination to hold him to her.

'I'll see you soon, Ellen.'
'No, Dean. You won't.'

Dean stopped, and turned back, a questioning look on his face.

'If you replace your mind with a robot, certainly, you would have your memories. It would speak like you. It would act like you. But it would be incapable of feeling, of wanting anything. And then, you won't be you anymore. I won't see you. I will see a sorry excuse of a piece of machine that calls itself you!'

The entire coffeehouse was silent at this point of time, for Ellen had essentially yelled out the last few words. Her chest was heaving, her breaths coming heavy. Dean walked back, and sat her down, and she yielded to his directions.

'This has been done before, Ellen. Those who are brain dead, for example. Their family would rather have them fitted with a robotic mind than be away from them. No one is disputing that they are still them. I will be me. I just won't be able to feel. But at least I'll live, and we can still be friends. And I won't be miserable, and neither will you.'

'You will not be you, Dean.'

Dean spared Ellen a glance, and smiled his odd smile, one that never really reached his eyes.

'I'll see you soon', he repeated.
'Please', she begged.

And he was gone.