By power of deviantart, I summon thee! ------- Skiing His mental health had always been unstable; he was prone to night terrors and hearing voices. But his mental state was not too scrambled; he simply took a low does of medication. Two pills, 200 milligrams, that's all. Two pills each month and he was fine. He and his two best friends had gone skiing. Up in a pristine slope in Colorado; the sun was shining off the snow, creating a pale-white glow that pervaded everything in their area. The time was 3:00. He was a surreptitious man; his true emotions hidden behind a facade of stupidity and indifference, his eyes stared blankly at whatever they were fixated on. Yet behind those stupid eyes was a salient intelligence and word smithing; after all, the best writers are insane. He wrote editorials and short stories for a living, and his name was on many popular short stories across various collections: The Compendium of Tales, The Story Collections X, XIV, and XVI, and Stories of Steel. His publishing agency, Sycorax, was at first reluctant to enter his stories in these collections; they soon realized, however, by the sharp eye of one Mr. Crestview, that without his stories, the entire book would be tantamount to a random collection of scatterbrain thoughts vomited onto paper. He was good at what he did. Their skiing trip had gone smoothly for a while. It was getting dark, however, so they needed to head back to the lodge; they had gone far out, so they needed to backtrack to the lift. He was walking at the rear of their group; minding his own business. But then, he heard a scream. The others weren't fazed, so he felt it was his duty to save the lost, freezing person who owned that scream. Trekking out into the woods, he continued to hear screams, which enticed him into a northern direction. He kept trudging through the seemingly vampiric snow, still hearing these screams, as the wind pounded brutally against his face. He began to feel weak, and deathly cold. He was catching hypothermia; yet still he continued onward to the person he was to rescue. Getting weak, he sat down up against a stalwart tree, breathing heavily. His vision began to darken. . . . He awoke in a friendly lodge; with his friends next to him. He immediately got up, silently, and sat by the fire; the biting cold inside of him smoothing into a recuperating cool; he felt as though he were a half-corporeal being who lay in a cool river, the sublime cool inside of him like the freshest water. After warming sufficiently, he went over to his knapsack, and checked his pills. The bottle read on the sticker: "50 mg pill." He sank, contented, into a leather chair, and took two more pills. However, sometimes he swears he can still hear the terrorized screams of a small child in those woods. . . .
It's not incredible, but it suits the theme. Sort of. . . .
