As the sweet arms of Morpheus carried Cold far away to a small island of joy and love that to Cold seemed so foreign and queer, he stood on the island with a renewed sense of belief. It was as though he was floating on a cloud of joy. He smiled and laughed although he really wasn't there.
But, as everything must die at some point, the small island was consumed by fire. Everything was consumed by fire, even Cold. And no matter how hard he tried to run away, his legs were glued, stuck, melted to the ground. He couldn't move, his whole body was paralyzed. He screamed and screamed and screamed and still nothing happened. he started to hurt; he hurt so much that the fire started to turn his skin to black dust. Cold was dust, he was nothing. And Cold was utterly terrified. As he crumbled and shook and shrank eventually into nothing, the image of his father came to him like a saving grace. "Father!" he gasped "please help me! I am dyeing! Please! Do something!"
His father didn't look at him. He just smiled down, down at a little baby boy at his feet. The ugly, painful truth hit Cold like a bullet in the head or a train on a track. It made Cold feel hot and sticky inside, like his organs, sick with spiritual neglect, were squirming and melting and sloshing around like acid. It felt like a slap in the face or some kind of ancient, evil, sadistic torture device poking and hacking away at his small, burned painful body. recreating him as nothing and turning his soul into a cold, worthless, useless, tiny pebble. It played over and over in his head like some kind of taunting chant.
That baby wasn't him. That baby was his father's new son, his new "prince". It was almost as if Cold was nothing anymore; like he might as well be dead, or killed, by his father. The man was right. If he did not come and take Cold when he did, his father would destroy his own son.
Suddenly, a bullet sprang out of the man's outstretched hand and shot straight through Cold's heart. The fire stopped, all that cold could see was what-he-called-his-father's eyes completely devoid of tears or any sense of love, guilt, or despair. All Cold could see was joy in those heartless eyes belonging to that heartless soul as he laughed his own son to his death.