Tears for Winter

It is dark and wet now where the paleness of my hands once revealed themselves to me, piercing through the blackness of the eternal winter. In spite of this, there is no hiding what I’ve done.

I glance to the right in the pitch dark, and frantically cover my hands in the dirt and sod on the floor nearby, scraping and tearing at my skin to remove the moist evidence. What have I done? What have I done?!

My hands are shaking. I rest them on my knees, close my eyes, and take a breath. They’ll be expecting me back soon. This time, I didn’t fail. This time my family won’t face the loss of hunger. Our hunger is fed through the sacrifice of others. Maybe they were a loner. Maybe they won’t be missed. I reason with myself. She needs to carry on. My girls need to carry on.

I shuffle on the dirt and find my prey once more. The remaining warmth and plash of their skin surprises me, causing a sharp intake of air. I fall back. Do it. You have to. I shuffle back, once more. Then move forward again, keeping in mind my motivation. I have to continue. Unsheathing my knife I remove limbs. Cutting flesh is easier than you would think. I swallow my fear.

The flesh makes familiar sounds. “It’s just steak,” I tell myself. Repeating it in my head. It’s just steak. It’s just steak. I place the “meat” in my satchel, and stand up. Taking a breath to orient myself. My heavy coat carries the smell of my deed, and the weight of my satchel reminds me of what I’ve done. The frigid cold orients me once more to my situation. I need to be heading home now.

The wind strikes my eyes and they weep. They weep for my freshly made meal. They weep for my family.