Golden Black Snow

Whirls spun in the air, twirling up and down, freezing flecks dotting his face and melting on her chilling skin. He couldn't see passed fifteen feet before him; everything was a white nightmare with lurking shapes surrounding him, shapes he couldn't see through the deadly swirls.1

Her skin was slowly growing lighter, the blood dulling in her face, draining away. That pale, purple, gray quality was fading to mingle with the whiteness of the snow.2

Her hair had a pale, golden sheen to it, as gold as that damned chain hanging limply from her neck. Her lips were turned down in a painful frown, her eyes glassy and glossy and foggy. Unfocused. A film was beginning to grow over her pupils, fading the piercing black.3

Her gripped the coarse texture of her pants more tightly, feeling underneath to her unwarmed skin. Slowly, the heat was fading from her, slowly her body was stiffening in his arms.4

Snowflakes caught in her hair and froze there, whitening her skin, hair, clothes...5

He saw the black, glassy reflection close by.6

Head bent low, he carried his burden to the black river, his legs shuddering with the cold and collapsing when he reached the bank, the wetness slipping through his cotton pants, weighing him down.7

Slowly, gently, amidst the swirling white wind, he set her angelic, gray body down. A snowflake caught on her nose and sat there, crystallizing as part of her - crystalline, still, pale.8

He felt the tears freezing on his skin, barely leaving his eyes before transforming into ice.9

He looked down, shuddering and anxious, at his handiwork.10

A thin, deep purple line cut into her throat. Bumps lined it, bumps where the chain dug into her neck. A cross was imprinted into the skin on the bone around the hollow of her throat; the cross was emblazoned into her skin, the circular pressure marks of his fingers along the cross imprint, and the memory of the tiny, dying Jesus digging into his fingers still hung at the tips of his touch.11

He looked down at the chain - god, that god damned chain. It shone and glittered even in this feeble light, golden, still snow among its silver, whipping companions. The thin golden cross, the cross that killed and crucified that "savior" Jesus hung limply off the side of her neck, hiding in her hair, unable to be seen if you had not known it was there.12

He hadn't meant to go this far...but the words rang in his ears, rang with a sort of terrifying horror.13

"I hate you..."14

It had a hideous, beauteous quality to it, like an angel come down as your guide to Hell's Gate.15

"I could never understand why you thought I actually liked you..."16

So cold, cold as the snow, so sharp, sharp as the ice, so black, black as the river, so heartless, heartless as...as she is now...17

"So just get it through that thick little skull of yours - I hate you."18

He now looked down at her face. It was tormented and filled with terrified hatred.19

"I have always hated you."20

Gray hatred.21

"I will always hate you."22

She was like...a zombie.23

"I will hate you to the day I die."24

Die.25

The word rang in his head, pounding through it at each cold slap of a wind, every sharp prick of a snowflake, every shiver that escaped his numbing lips.26

He looked down at her. So unpeaceful...27

He crawled, with her icy body closely pressed to his, to the river.28

He peered over the edge.29

It was black, reflective. Had there been more light, had the white flecks not stained and painted his vision beyond help, he would have seen himself staring back - tired, worn, scared.30

A ripple flickered across the sheer surface. He glanced to his left.31

Her shoeless foot dangled into the river's surface, disturbing the fierce tranquility of nature.32

Her foot was blue. It was small, dainty - blue. He shifted his weight; her foot became immersed under the liquid, tar-water - unseen from view.33

He couldn't see anything. The wind shrieked in his ears, the whiteness grew and spotted his eyes, the gold hair and angry little Jesus blared from his peripheral vision, tears blurred anything and everything, stinging his eyes, paining his black heart.34

He shifted his weight further. Her body began to slide from his grasp.35

He crushed his eyes shut and tried to remember who it was in his arms.36

Gleaming hair, full, sweet lips, graceful hands, curving waist and hips, soft, porcelain skin...37

A heart of dripping black distaste...38

He could feel the weight slip away from him, feel the body leave his grasp.39

He squinted his eyes open, and saw her slipping away. Her glassy eyes still stared out at nothing; bloody red was beginning to web across her eyes, breaking through the frosty film.40

Her legs were unseen beneath the glittering surface. Ripples floated away from her body, breaking through its natural current.41

He forced his fingers to pry open; he forced his hands to pull away.42

Slowly, very slowly, her body began to sink as if through quicksand. Her hair clung to the craggy bank of the frigid river, clinging to the little bit of life, pleading desperately to come back, to beg for something, anything.43

His hands were frozen; he longed to reach out and touch her hair before it slid away, forever - he wanted to touch it the last time it would ever be so perfect.44

The last thing to slide in after her, after her face was hidden, after her Medusa hair had lost the fight to hang onto the bank, the last thing to slip in was the tiny, dead, half-naked pendant of the dying Jesus.