three
Jade
Pure. Freaking. Heaven.
That's the only way to describe the feeling of cutting through untouched powder, my skis floating on eighteen inches of pristine snow. No chopped-up runs, no weekend warriors snowplowing their way down, no children's ski school snaking across my path. Just me and the mountain in perfect harmony.
The setting sun paints the snow in shades of pink and gold as I carve my way down the bowl. My breath forms clouds that trail behind me, and the only sound is the soft swoosh of my skis and my own exhilarated laughter.
This is why I can't give it up. This feeling. This perfect moment of freedom where nothing exists except the next turn, the next drop, the next sensation. It's better than any drug, better than sex—well, the sex I've had, anyway.
I catch air off a natural lip in the terrain, suspended momentarily in flight. God, if Carlson could see me now, he'd have an aneurysm. Worth it, though. So worth it.
I land smoothly and continue my descent, heading toward a gully that will lead me back toward the resort's outer boundary. Five more minutes and I'll be back in bounds, none the wiser.
The late-day shadows make it harder to read the terrain, but I've always had good mountain sense.
I adjust my line slightly, aiming for a passage between two stands of pines.
The snow here is even deeper, reaching mid-thigh when I cut through it.
It's getting heavier too, not quite the champagne powder from higher up.
That's when I hear it. A deep, resonant "whumpf" sound that seems to come from everywhere and nowhere at once.
My blood turns to ice. Every skier knows that sound. It's the sound of snow layers collapsing. The sound of death.
For one suspended moment, nothing happens. Then, a crack appears in the snow about fifteen feet above me, spreading like lightning across the slope. The entire surface layer begins to move.
"No, no, no," I whisper, but the mountain doesn't care about my protests.
I turn my skis downhill, pointing them straight in a desperate attempt to outrun the slide. For a second, I think I might make it—I'm accelerating, pulling ahead of the advancing wave of snow.
Then my right ski catches something beneath the surface. In an instant, I'm tumbling, skis releasing from my boots as designed. The world becomes a violent, spinning nightmare of white.
The force of it is incomprehensible—like being hit by a truck, then dragged behind it.
I'm rolled and flipped and crushed all at once.
Snow forces its way into my mouth, my nose, my clothing.
I can't tell which way is up. I try to swim, to fight against the current as I've been taught, but it's like battling a liquid concrete tsunami.
A searing pain explodes in my left shoulder as I slam against something solid—a tree or a rock. The impact knocks what little air I had from my lungs.
The roar is deafening, then suddenly muffled as the avalanche slows and I'm dragged deeper. The pressure increases around me, squeezing my chest, making it impossible to expand my lungs. I'm being buried alive.
In some detached part of my brain, I remember the training: Make an air pocket. Keep one hand in front of your face. Don't panic.
But my body isn't listening to my brain anymore. Everything hurts. I can't move. The snow is setting like cement around me.
With my last bit of strength, I manage to bring my right hand up near my face, creating a tiny space—a pathetic bubble of air that might give me a few more minutes of life.
Darkness. Cold. Silence.
This is how I die. Not in a blaze of glory on a competition run with cameras rolling, but alone in the wilderness because I was too stupid, too reckless, too desperate for a thrill.
As the oxygen in my little pocket depletes, my mind drifts. I see my parents' faces when I told them I was skipping college to pursue Olympic dreams. My coach's expression when my knee exploded during qualifiers. The look on Carlson's face this afternoon when he warned me to stay in bounds.
Should have gone for hot chocolate. Stupid, stupid girl.
The edges of consciousness begin to blur. Is this what dying feels like? It's almost peaceful now. The pain is fading. I'm floating.
Wait. What's that sound?
Something above me. Faint. Rhythmic. Scratching?
A bark. Definitely a bark. Am I hallucinating?
More scratching, more urgent now. Voices, muffled by layers of snow.
"...here! Aspen's got something!"
The pressure around my chest lessens slightly. They're digging. Someone is actually digging for me.
I try to move, to call out, but nothing works. My lungs burn. My vision, what little there is in the pitch blackness, sparkles with tiny dots of light.
The sounds grow closer. Frantic digging. More barking.
Suddenly, a rush of cold air hits my face. Light—painful, beautiful light—floods my tiny prison as snow is cleared away from my head.
Strong hands work quickly to free my upper body. I cough weakly, sucking in precious oxygen that tastes better than anything I've ever experienced.
"I've got you. Stay with me." The voice is deep, authoritative. A man's voice.
As they lift me partially out of my icy grave, I force my eyes open.
Through a haze of pain and confusion, I see him—a bearded face, weathered by sun and wind.
Eyes the color of a winter sky—intense, focused, concerned.
Older than me, maybe late thirties or early forties, with streaks of silver at his temples that somehow make him look distinguished rather than old.
Even in my barely conscious state, something stirs inside me—an unexpected flutter that has nothing to do with my injuries. There's something about him—something in those eyes that sees right through me.
"You're safe now," he says, but there's no warmth in his voice. He seems almost disappointed in me.
I try to thank him, to apologize, to say anything, but the words won't come. The world spins violently, darkness creeping in from the edges.
The last thing I register before consciousness slips away is his arms around me, solid and secure, lifting me from the snow. And despite everything—the pain, the fear, the stupidity that got me here—I feel an inexplicable sense of rightness in those arms.
Then nothing but darkness claims me.