Page 7 of My Savior Valentine

I close my eyes, forcing myself to take deep breaths. I can't let the fear overwhelm me. I've been in tough situations before. I think back to my Olympic training, remembering the countless hours spent pushing my body and mind to the limit.

My dad's voice echoes in my head. "Mental toughness, Willow. That's what separates the good from the great. When your body wants to quit, your mind has to take over."

I open my eyes, determination surging through me. I can't give up.

I brace myself and attempt to stand again. The moment I put weight on my injured leg, a searing pain shoots through it as if someone has thrust a white-hot poker into my flesh. I cry out, falling back into the snow.

I lie there, panting, tears streaming down my face. The pain is unlike anything I've ever experienced. It's not just the sharp, stabbing sensation when I try to move but also the deep, throbbing ache that persists even when I'm still.

I want to scream, to curse the universe for putting me in this position. Haven't I been through enough already? But I know that won't help. I have to stay focused, find a way to survive until help arrives.

If it arrives.

I shake my head, banishing the thought. I can't think like that. Someone will find me. I just have to hold on.

I spot a fallen tree branch nearby, its shape giving me an idea. A memory flashes through my mind - a camping trip with Dad when I was twelve. He insisted on teaching me basic survival skills, like how to build a shelter and start a fire.

At the time, I remember rolling my eyes, thinking it was just another way for him to push me, to mold me into the perfect athlete. But as he showed me how to splint a broken leg usingsticks and strips of cloth, his eyes held a genuine concern that I rarely saw.

"Pay attention, Willow," he’d said, his voice gruff but not unkind. "I hope you never have to use this, but if you do, it could save your life."

I blink away the memory, focusing on the task. I crawl towards the branch, gritting my teeth against the pain. Each movement sends a fresh wave of agony through my leg, but I push through it, just like I did in training.

I think back to those grueling days on the slopes, the endless drills and conditioning sessions. My coach was a taskmaster, but he had nothing on my dad. He was always there, pushing me to go faster, to be better. No matter how many races I won or records I broke, it was never enough.

I snap off a few sturdy twigs from the branch, testing their strength. The wood is damp from the snow but still solid. I strip off my scarf, tearing it into strips with my teeth.

As I begin to construct the splint, my mind drifts to the arguments with my parents, the fights that became more frequent as the pressure mounted. My dad wanted me to focus solely on skiing, to put everything else aside in pursuit of Olympic gold. But I wanted a life outside of the sport, friends and hobbies that had nothing to do with the slopes.

I position the twigs on either side of my leg, wincing as I tighten the makeshift bindings. The pain is still there, but the splint provides a small measure of stability. It's not perfect, but it'll have to do.

With the splint in place, I take a moment to catch my breath. The pain is still there, throbbing in the background, but at least I can move a little more easily now. I scan the area around me, searching for any sign of my missing phone.

The snow is falling even heavier now, the flakes so thick I can barely see a few feet in front of me. The wind howls like awounded animal, whipping the snow into a frenzy. It stings my face and eyes, making it hard to keep them open.

I crawl forward, using my hands to sweep through the snow. My fingers are numb with cold, but I keep searching, desperately hoping to feel the familiar shape of my phone. But as the minutes tick by and the snow piles up, I realize the futility of my efforts.

Even if my phone is out here somewhere, the chances of finding it in these conditions are slim to none. And with the temperature dropping and the storm worsening, I know I can't afford to waste any more time.

I need shelter and fast.

I think back to those survival skills Dad taught me all those years ago. I remember him showing me how to build a snow cave, using the snow itself as insulation against the cold.

I drag myself towards a large snowdrift, ignoring the searing pain that threatens to swallow me whole if I let it. Using my hands, I start digging into the side of the drift, carving out a small hollow. The snow is heavy and wet, making the work difficult, but I keep at it.

I try to focus on the task, on my survival, but my mind keeps drifting back to my current situation. How did I end up here, alone and injured, on a mountainside? Was it just bad luck, or was it some sort of cosmic punishment for my stupidity?

I think about my mom, probably sick with worry by now. And my dad... despite our differences, I know he loves me in his own way. The thought of never seeing them again sends a sharp pang through my chest, and I redouble my efforts.

As I dig deeper into the snowdrift, I start to create a small tunnel, just big enough for me to crawl into. My hands are raw and bleeding from the cold and the sharp edges of the icy snow, but I don't stop. I can't stop.

Finally, after what feels like hours, I have a small cave carved out of the snow. It's not pretty, but it's shelter. I crawl inside, dragging my injured leg behind me.

I collapse into the small snow cave, my breath coming in ragged gasps. The pain in my leg is still there, but at least I'm out of the wind and the driving snow. I curl up as best I can and push my hands under my armpits to try and warm them up. All I can do now is try and conserve what little body heat I have left.

As I lie there, shivering and alone, I can't help but think about the choices that led me here. Why did I come to Hope Peak alone? Was I so desperate to escape everything and everyone that I thought this was a good idea?

I remember the arguments with my parents, the constant pressure to get back on the slopes and reclaim my place at the top. My mom, always so protective, wanted to shield me from the media scrutiny and the whispers of "has-been" that followed me everywhere. My dad, with his relentless drive and high expectations, pushed me to be better, faster, and stronger.

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