The life of winter first, the gun, second. One bullet through the skull, an eye misses, and then, a smile in a woman’s face, who is both the corpse and the killer. Snow falls like volcanic ash, enveloping the land with its flakes of crimson white, and with the body of someone who died, there it continues forever, the cold of the world, the last soul that will ever die.
Those two people, one who enjoys the concept of dying covered in a blizzard, and another one, who has died in the simplest of terms, are entombed. Then, they are forgotten. Then, their bodies, one alive, and one chained to the concept of a thoughtless death, exist in the endless winter waiting for the signal that the woman, who is not dead, will finally receive the signal she has been waiting for. That her killing someone else wasn’t in vain, that she deserves happiness, that she can eat the corpse of her old friend if she gets hungry enough, and that she will, someday, far into the future, be able to look back to these events and love and laugh and plan accordingly. She will grow and be a new person, she will understand the pain of death in a personal way, and she will know when it is most appropriate to tell nobody what she did, and the reasons why she did it, and smirk when she is ever asked.
She continues through the blizzard, suffocating in the frozen water that covers her naked heart, but she doesn’t realize. Instead, she drags the body along and makes strange messages that nobody will read, but a solitary moon that there lights her way, up and down a hill. She wraps the body around her like a blanket to protect herself from the infamy of thawing away alone whenever the night ends, instead, to make others believe that she spent the night together with someone beautiful and perfect.
“You will stay with me, no matter what,” she says to the cold around her.
The snow cloaks itself around them, and it is so warm and pretty that she forgets that she is supposed to be freezing to death, fantasizing about something that will only happen in the last second of her life, just before she croaks and barfs the last of her guilt.
When she wakes up, the night has ended, but not the storm, and when she opens her eyes, she is blinded and forced to burn her own memories so that she doesn’t experience of: being a killer, being a woman, being strange, being alive, and being herself. She stumbles around, screaming in agony, and stumbles right into the body she shot, and there she says a prayer, mouth to mouth, and there she bleeds at last, from her pitiful soul all the way to her gangrenous toes.
“It was all for everything, to spend the rest of the few moments of my life with such passion, with all this emotion,” she says, and the corpse stays frozen, and she agrees, the blank vision trampling her last goodbye.