I saw the blood before I felt the bullet. The blood stood
out, crimson on the snow, like wet paint on a blank canvas. The droplets felt
onto the frozen ground, sinking into the snow and spreading out like blooming rosebuds. My hand found my stomach and pressed against the
wound, keeping the blood in as it dripped down my fingers, leaving sticky
trails of red on my hands. The pain made my vision blur. I looked at Aaron, his
hands trembling, barely able to hold onto the shaking gun.
“I- I had to,” he said, face whiter than the drifting snow
around us. I thought back to his anger, red as my fresh blood, and felt the
cold seeping into me.
“No, Aaron,” I said, “You didn’t have to.” My legs gave out
and I fell to my knees, melted snow making its way through the thin layer of
my jeans. The world was dimming, spinning, but somehow the image of the blood
on snow stayed in my mind.
I tilted my head back and opened my mouth, tasting the fresh
snowflakes on my tongue, and let the cold swallow me up.
No comments:
Post a Comment