Lungs. Lungs wheeze for an ounce of warmth, an ounce of oxygen— Anything, anything other than the harsh abuse of winter wind that slaps snowflakes onto your face. Your feet whine for you to stop but you know the moment you do, there's no chance of achieving any good ending, if there's even any. Your hands are wet with the oozing blood that drips down the scratch marks you received from tripping down several times on your fleeting state.

Wish you didn't come here in the evening when the sun was saying goodbye and clouds were busy shading the sky. Wish curiosity never kills the cat, because you know yours dropped your ass head-on where you shouldn't have been. Wrong decision, at wrong time, and wrong place, they say.

Your mind keeps replying what you saw a few minutes ago, urging you to move forward because apparently you'd be in a similar image if you stop and scream like an idiot. Maybe Frank fucking Morrison expected you to scream like an idiot too, because when you started to run at a speed you didn't knew you possessed— especially in a damn ski field filled to brim with white sheets of snow that slow you down— he stood there as though he was watching the wildlife. This IS the wildlife, and the predator isn't a four-legged beast with sharp rows of teeth tucked neatly in a huge jaw that could pluck your head out with one little tug; but a very familiar person holding a bloodied screwdriver.

As if on cue, God decides to play a cruel joke on you— your boots slip and your body hauls forward, clashing with the freezing softness of the snow with a sharp cry of anguish and rage.

"Fuckin' stumblebum," A voice growls from behind and a rough hand turns your body around, pressing a heavy foot over your clothed chest. With a push, your body's sprawled on the ground, facing the bad ending you've been running from.