Cold Season

I cradled my daughter's lifeless body, the pain embedded so deep that I could not even find the tears to cry. The doctor's words haunted me.

"If only you'd been ten minutes earlier, maybe she could've been saved."

Out of nowhere, my wife Sheila Chapman's call broke through, my hands shaking as I picked up.

"Hey, Tristan, it's just you and the kiddo for dinner tonight. I can't make it back. Jeff's down with a nasty fever, hit thirty-nine degrees. It's pretty bad."

"Sheila, our little girl... she's gone."

My voice was eerily calm, laced with despair. I had no desire left to live, cursing myself for not being able to join my daughter.

"You're not making sense, Tristan. If you're sick, go to the doctor. Don't play around with our daughter's life."

"Sheila..." I could not contain it anymore and let out a roar, "You killed our daughter! If you have any heart left, get over to Somerset General Hospital now!"

"What's gotten into you, Tristan? Jealous again? Well, let me make this clear, even if you and our daughter were both dead, I'd still be here with Jeff."

The call ended with Sheila's harsh words. She hung up.

I realized I was blocked when I tried to call back.

Finally, I let go of all the pent-up grief, sobbing uncontrollably as I held my daughter's icy body.

I could not wrap my head around how Sheila could choose a man over us.

How could she ever think I would joke about our daughter's life?

I was the one who had been there since day one, watching our daughter go from crawling to her first steps, from her first words to calling out for 'daddy' and 'mommy'. I had been there until she turned five.

She would stay five forever.

It was all Sheila's doing. If she had not forgotten to turn off the gas after making that late-night soup for Jeff, our daughter would not have succumbed to the silent killer that was carbon monoxide.

If that guy had not blocked the ambulance, if we had not lost precious time, my daughter might still be alive.

She believed I was just being petty, making a cruel joke at the expense of our daughter's life.

I was in a fog as I handled my daughter's final arrangements. When I got back home with her ashes, the place was a mess.

Lacy bras, panties, skirts, jeans: they were scattered from the living room all the way to our bedroom door.

From inside, I could hear sickening sounds.

"Come on. Tristan might be back soon, and my daughter's about to get out of school."

"Alright, sweetheart. Call me 'hubby' so I can hear it."

"Ugh, hubby~"

My hands were fists so tight that my nails were cutting into my palms.

After setting down my daughter's urn, I went to the kitchen and grabbed a knife.

I kicked the bedroom door open and there they were, bare as the day they were born.

"Ah, hubby! You… Why are you back?"

Sheila scrambled for the covers, trying to hide, while Jeff was drenched in sweat, clumsily trying to get his pants on.

My eyes were red with rage as I stepped toward them, knife in hand.

"Tristan, what are you doing?" Sheila's voice shook as she screamed at me.

However, I was beyond reason.

"I'm going to kill you both."

I swung the knife at Jeff, but he was quick. He grabbed the nightstand and hurled it at me. It hit me before I could get out of the way.

He grabbed Sheila and they bolted for the door.

I chased after them, pain ripping through me, and then I was hit by something that made my insides turn to ice.