Winter Möbius

The scene was dry, even though snow covered the land. Specks of white matter glowed in bright flashes, signaling my mission. Like the filament of a light bulb, this person's life flared hot until it died upon the snow. So here I am, to clean it up. I scratched a wet spot on my head, the snow was falling very hard this evening. Under the fresh snow—as if hiding his deeds—callous stars of red liquid poked out glaringly. A black object, most likely a pistol, fell at his head opposite the stars. I quickly played the scene out in my head. The man walked out into this field of white crystals as a gun tapped his leg. I know the pistol was cold in his hands, after all, that always happens. I imagine a tear left his eyes as he saw the fading remains of lights in the distance become devoured by the growing mist of gray fog. Soon after, his trembling fingers commanded the gun to his head and then— BANG! I winced as the sharp sound of frustrated dreams temporarily deafened my right ear. Instinctually, I raised my hand to my ear and felt cool liquid on my fingertips. "The snow's melting already?" I mouthed as my fingers demanded my utmost attention. In the falling snow, I stared at my fingers—dark matter smeared across their minute ridges. I stared as a snowflake tried to rest on my warm palm. Only, it didn't. It continued to fall through my hand as the fading lights in the distance bounced off its exterior like a warm lover losing his love. I curiously watched the snowflake mingle with its frozen brethren as I realized I would slowly become one with the land of dry snow.