There used to be six of us. Now, I sit alone. I sit with the chill air and snow inches deep around my ankles as I trek up the hill to a cabin that I have grown to love. I used to hate it. It reminded me of the solitude that would one day grow to surround me. It reminded me of the sobering fact that my skin trembled at night when the air would rush in through the opened seals in the window. There was no one to wrap me in a blanket, to soothe me back to sleep. It reminded me of the fact that I was alone. Still, it reminds me of the same fact. I am *alone*. It reminds me of the notion that I can be still with my thoughts that rush through me like a silver bullet. I can please no one and with the same swift hand, I can disappoint no one. …show more content…
I no longer have a mirror. I soon grew tired of my blunt eyebrows, the freckles that only darkened my olive skin. My hands are spotted with blood under the gloves, a tomahawk secured in my sheath and a rifle over my shoulder. I didn't forget to shower the night before, but the chill chapped my lips as it was. I could taste my own blood staining my teeth. This has been my life in and out for fifteen years. I used to cry myself to sleep and now I stare blankly at the ceiling until the fatigue chases out the images of last expressions that would otherwise haunt me. My footprints up the mile long trek up the hill are the only images of someone in the area. My cabin is hidden from view and the bloodstained trail and when I reach below, I camp out in the trees. I watch from the scope and most days, it's painstakingly slow. Other days, I wait patiently and take my shot. If I miss my shot, I jump and I go in for the kill. Before, I would dread the days where crimson would taint my skin. Now, I dread the days where I can only focus on the chill running up and down my spine. Where I forget the folklore and the magic soaking at the base and can only focus on the chance of