The Winter That Buried Our Youth

I was praying that the wolf would eat faster.

At least then my so-called father wouldn't have the chance to give his sickening little lecture over my dead body.

Time ticked by, minute after minute. The clock on the wall pointed to 11:50 pm.

The atmosphere in the private room had grown somewhat strange.

Aside from that one momentary shift, the red dot never moved again. It just stayed there, 440 yards from Camp One.

Dad was feeling the effects of the alcohol now. He glanced at the time and slapped the phone down on the table.

"Ten more minutes." He looked around at everyone, his gaze hazy yet fervent. "I bet this brat walks through that door right at midnight. He's definitely been there all along, just hiding outside waiting to surprise me.

"This brat's been this way his whole life. He wants to curry favor with me, but doesn't have the guts to just come out and say it. I'll wager a bottle of vintage wine that the moment he steps through the door, he'll get on his knees.

"Then, he'll say, 'Dad, I was wrong. I didn't know any better back then."

Dad burst into loud laughter, the sound jarringly harsh in the quiet private room.

No one responded.

Uncle Arnold looked down, smoking his cigarette. Uncle Dennis pretended to fiddle with his phone. Aunt Ethel rubbed her hands together nervously.

Everyone could sense something was wrong.

Only Mom kept staring at that red dot, her lips already bitten bloody.

The distant sound of Christmas bells rang out with a bong.

Immediately after, fireworks exploded across the sky outside the window, illuminating the pitch-black night with red, green, and gold colors.

Faint cheers could be heard in the distance.

Midnight came, and the door to the private room remained tightly shut.

Nobody pushed the door open and came in, nor did anyone get down on their knees.

The smile froze on Dad's face. He stared at the door as if trying to bore a hole through it with his gaze.

One minute passed. Two minutes. Five minutes.

Yet, the door still didn't budge.

Dad's pride was wounded. The bold claims he made and the bet he set up in front of all his relatives had all turned into a joke.

"Damn it," he cursed, grabbing his phone. "How dare that little brat stand me up? He thinks he can screw with me?"

He dialed my number, only to be met with a long, endless ringtone. Each ring was like a slash across Dad's already frayed nerves.

Just as he was about to hang up and redial, the call connected. It wasn't unanswered, nor was it switched off.

It was answered.

"Hello?" Dad's voice was tight with barely controlled fury as he put the call on speaker. "Say something! Cat got your tongue? How dare you not come back on time? Are you asking for a beating?"

Everyone fell silent, so much so that one could even hear a pin drop.

But instead of hearing my voice, there was only the sound of the wind howling.

Then, amidst that terrifying wind came a stranger's voice. It was heavy, rough, and punctuated by violent gasps for air.

"Is this Trevor Bowen?"

Dad froze for a moment, then exploded with rage.

"Who are you? Where's Julian? Did that little bastard give you his phone? Or did he pay you to put on some act?"

Dad roared into the phone, "Oh, so now he needs some other man to speak for him? Tell him to stop pretending, and have him talk to me himself! Is he trying to scare me? What, you think I was born yesterday?"

A few seconds of silence passed on the other end before the man finally replied. But this time, he wasn't probing. Instead, his voice trembled with uncontrollable fury and terror.

"This is Dwayne Holloway, captain of the mountain rescue team."

Rescue team?

Dad let out a scornful laugh and said mockingly, "You're still putting on an act?"

The voice on the other end of the line rose, cutting through the speaker so sharply it seemed to rattle the dishes on the table.

"I found Julian 440 yards above Camp One, at the bottom of a cliff. His whole body is frozen solid. And he was still clutching a torn piece of note in his hand."