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Marcus

By Harriet Gillian

“But why do I have to do it?” Marcus moaned.

Daniel put his hand on his hip and shot back; “Because YOU are the only one with gloves, Marcus, now go. Go on.”

“Ugh.” Marcus turned on his heel and trudged towards the tree line. His trainers were topped with a thick layer of snow and he could feel the cold getting to his bad toe - they were all bad really, Daniel knew that; god, he was a bitch sometimes.

“YOU’RE the only one with proper boots on, DANIEL, funny how that didn’t matter though, did it?” Marcus muttered.

He looked back at everyone. They’d arranged themselves in a line, like an old Benetton advert, all wearing bright athleisure wear, all ridiculously good looking and all willing him on, like kids about to knock on a strangers door and run away. They better not run away, he thought with a frown.

“OH COME ON!” Daniel yelled. “WE HAVEN’T GOT ALL DAY.”

Marcus took a sharp inhale of breathe and ploughed on. He reached the offending article and stopped an arms length away. He looked at it, literally and emotional numb.

“WELL?” Daniel yelled. 

“IT IS YOURS.” Marcus yelled back without turning round. He picked up Daniel’s Gucci headband. The saliva from the racoon who’d stolen it, chewed it and decided she was more a Dior-girl, had frozen the headband stiff. But despite its dramatic last few minutes, the precious headband was otherwise unharmed. Unlike Marcus’ bad toes.