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Snowflakes drift gently down between the bare branches of the trees. A sight that normally would have been beautiful in different circumstances. For all it’s softness, the snow is so very cold. Everything is so very cold. Everything, except for the blood spilling out of me.

Thankfully, even though I know it’s a bad thing, the pain has dropped to a numbed throb that fades and flairs with my pulse. And even that is slowly ebbing away. Like a gentle tide, like the darkness that seems to be creeping closer.

I should be afraid, but even that emotion, once a raging siren ringing in my skull, seems to escape my grasp like water slipping through my fingers. Drifting away to become someone else’s problem, like the blood spilling across that beautiful white expanse. Though I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised, fear signals adrenaline, which in turn makes one push to live. Fear means your still alive, still breathing, your heart pounding in your ears, reminding you with every harsh beat, that you are not dead yet. But the rush of my pounding heart only makes the blood pour faster. Makes the heat of life flee from my veins.

I almost miss it. That pain. That heat and the pounding, dizzying rush of fear filled adrenaline that had kept me on my feet, that had kept my senses sharp. Though, not sharp enough, apparently. Not enough to keep me going just long enough to get out, to get help.

Though I suppose not even the most determined of people could have navigated their way through the miles of frozen wilderness. Not after having to fight off someone so desperate to kill you. Not that the large man dressed in black with so many knives (and really who needs that many knives even if they’re a murderer), is much of a threat now. He succumbed to to cold and blood loss some time ago. Even if I still can’t quite understand how I managed to hurt him enough to slow him down. Hurt him enough that — that the blood sprayed out like a torn hose — so much blood — had I hit an artery?

Not that anything I did matters. He still got me. I’m soon to be just as dead as him. A horribly gory, beautiful painting of red across this barren, icy landscape.

Why am I still alive? Or still conscious for that matter? Is it the cold that makes it last? That terrible cold that grows comforting as the seconds tick by?

Maybe the cold isn’t so bad. It doesn’t even seem that cold anymore. There’s no warmth, and everything grows more and more muffled, numb. But, it doesn’t hurt. Not anymore.

Is death here for me, I wonder? I stare up into that beautiful blue sky. It is so very quiet here. So blank. It’s not a bad way to go I think. Going painlessly in your sleep or instantly are the best but, the way things are going? It’s not a bad way to die. It’s a pretty view at least.

I wonder how Tom will take it? At least the man who came to kill me, though I still don’t know why, can’t hurt him. I hope he’ll be okay. I know he loves me, and loss is devastating, but I hope he’ll move on. I hope he knows he can love someone else — I want him to love someone else.

Heh. Isn’t it funny? I’m lying in a field of white, bleeding out and probably being frozen to death, but the only thing on my mind is how Tom’s gonna be after I’m gone. I wonder what that says about me?

Everything’s kind of heavy now. Heavy and too light, isn’t that strange? Maybe it would be fine to go now? Yeah, the darks looking pretty comfy. It’s not cold anymore. It’s not anything anymore.

Maybe I can go in my sleep. The snow makes a pretty comfortable bed.

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