Andrew searched in the forest at the back of the old cottage, and in the fields toward the coast, but he couldn't find anything for him. The animals hid away, the corn was cold and sharp against his bare knees, and the wind pushed and harried him along as if urging him out to the sea. Standing on a cliff, the wind tugging his knotted hair, he peered down at that great grey ocean. The weight of all that water defied reckoning, and there was an austere beauty to the quivering waves along the surface, stretching out the horizon. But when he dived in he found nothing there to comfort or quench. The cold gnawed at his bones.

Andrew swam for about a mile to the beach at the north side of the island. He fell onto the sand, wondering if it would hold him gently as he sank in and surrendered. Frigid and unresponsive, it rejected him, each grain scraping at his flesh in rebellion.

Shivering, he wandered into the village. A few familiar faces peered at him, but he found no friendliness or warmth returned to him even when he forced a smile.

Since the nature of his 'sick desires'� and his past had become public knowledge, nobody had anything for him except contempt and hatred. He was sure that, eventually, they would either kill him or drive him from the island.

The shadows of early evening lengthened as he dawdled near the local church. Its shade, blackening further with every moment, was a vicious spike, pointed against him. As an act of mental defiance he imagined impaling himself upon it ' a symbolic martyrdom.

Sighing, not caring who heard, he headed home.

The cottage was icy and unwelcoming as usual. A while ago, some of his windows had been smashed in by local vandals and he had never replaced them. Winter wind invaded every corner with its scorn.

In the bathroom, Andrew dared to look into the mirror above the dirty sink. Like all mirrored surfaces in his dwelling, it was cracked.

A distorted being stared back at him. For the first time in many years, Andrew truly wanted to reach that creature, wanted to offer it comfort, love'� something. Its eyes cried out to him in need and pain. He acknowledged this yawning chasm at last, and he knew full well that it was his own hunger and thirst for life reflected back at him.

However, he and the creature were universes apart. There was no way through the glass. When he pounded his fist upon the mirror, it only created another crack. And blood. Not even his words could help bridge the infinity of separation.

He recoiled as new emotions twisted his face into something ugly. Tears sprang from his closed eyes and ran down his crinkled cheeks as quick sobs wracked his body. In desperation, he stumbled across the landing into his bedroom.

So cold. His tears were icy rivulets, slowing on his face. His body was near to frozen.

He reached down and turned on the small electric heater. It gave out little warmth, but Andrew felt as though he were dying. He needed something. In his turmoil he forgot that the useless thing had stopped working.

He climbed into bed, pulled the stained sheets up around his numb flesh.

And around hers.

Aunt Ruth.

She was pale and at peace now. Andrew never liked to use the word 'dead'� ' he preferred to say that she knew the perfect stillness that lay beyond the cage of life. Nobody knew he had her, of course. If anyone knew, there would be more than cold stares to deal with. She was his secret. She was all his.

He pulled more blankets up around them both. He shivered with increased intensity as his semi-naked body made contact with her fully naked form. Her skin was as cold as his was, and so smooth.

He knew that she was a mere shadow of what he really sought, just an echo of life. But her face and her skin were human. He studied her delicate jaw, her nose, her whole profile. He gazed, enraptured. Decay had not yet clawed her into an ugly cadaver. A few hours on from her passing, his aunt was as beautiful as she had been when alive. And now she no longer insulted him and scorned his every action, but welcomed his attention.

He didn't want to make love to her now. That would come later, perhaps. For now he just wanted to hold her until they were both warm again. To cry and hold her close.

So cold. The temperature plummeted by the minute. Sensation was leaving him.

Andrew looked at Ruth's face and found an echo of something for him. He closed his wet eyes, never opened them again.

When they eventually found him, his eyes were frozen forever shut with ice-tears. His heart was still.

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