Cold Mint by M.V.

The wind on the avenue felt like a slap in the face,

greasy with exhaust fumes and carrying the heavy stench of damp asphalt. Then, she walked past. A total stranger, running late, cutting through the crowd.

But her perfume stayed behind. It wasn’t sweet or heavy; it was a violent, chemical wave of artificial mint and crushed ice. Cold water. A scent so clean it practically cut the throat.

Mark stopped dead in his tracks. Someone bumped into his shoulder, grunted an insult, and moved on. Mark didn’t even turn around. His hands, shoved deep into the pockets of his expensive wool coat, instantly went clammy. That sharp, freezing smell tore a hole right through his chest, dragging him down into the gray mud of a November evening fifteen years ago.

He was twelve, sitting on a rusted iron bench in the hospital courtyard. Inside, behind the foggy yellow windows, his father was dying. But the dying part wasn't the worst. The worst part was his uncles and aunts sitting in the corridor just an hour ago, loudly calculating the price of the old man’s car, their faces twisted with a greedy, animal hunger. Mark had run out because he felt like vomiting from the hatred filling his throat. He wanted to break something. He wanted to hurt them.

His sister found him when his teeth were already chattering from the cold. She didn't hug him—they weren't that kind of family. She just sat down, pulled out a cheap plastic bottle of body spray, and drenched her wrists in it. It was that exact same, suffocatingly cold mint smell.

She looked at the yellow windows, her jaw tight. "They’re hyenas, Mark," she said, her voice dry, barely a whisper. "They want us to become just like them. Cold, greedy, empty. But if you let them turn you into a monster, they win. Don't let them freeze what’s left of you." She took his hand. Her fingers were freezing, but her grip was tight enough to bruise. It was the only real thing left in his world.

A car horn blasted, violently dragging him back to the crowded avenue. The scent of ice was gone, replaced by the smell of diesel and cheap street food.

People always called Mark a ruthless bastard. A corporate lawyer who cut deals like meat in a butcher shop. They thought his silence was malice. They didn't realize it was just a wall he built to keep the hyenas out.

A few steps away, an old woman stumbled near the subway steps. A cardboard box she was carrying ripped open, and dozens of cheap plastic trinkets spilled across the wet concrete. People shuffled past, stamping over the plastic, eyes glued to their phones.

Mark closed his eyes for a second. They want you to be cold, her voice echoed from the past. Don't let them.

He took a slow, heavy breath, stepped out of the crowd, and knelt right into the dirty slush on the pavement to help her pick up the pieces.