Today marks two months in the house tucked on the hill. Simon hunts, and you cook. You live in some sick, twisted housewife fantasy at the end of the fucking world. Simon provides, and you keep. There's snow on the ground this morning. It snowed all night, coating the ground in a few inches of powdery ice. He looks away from the window and back towards the mirror, continue to run the razor over his head. His blonde hair falls in clumps in the sink. He keeps it neat and short, close to the head, and then he does the same with his face. He cuts the stubble close, keeping his face clean, but it doesn't wipe away the rest of his face, the things he can't just cut away. The scars, the ridges, the skin that closed over, wounds angry and white and uneven.