Seasons:Winter Frost

It's freezing.

Numbing.

Perfect.

I have been outside in the snow for three hours. I feel entranced, hypnotised, I just cannot look away from the beauty of the scene, Every flaw, covered by white, angelic white. Everything looks so perfect, like it came from a picture.

No wonder I look out of place.

With every step I take, I leave a track.

A mark.

I always seem to mar the perfection, ruin the beauty. I mark everything. I mark snow with my feet. I mark walls with graffiti. I mark souls with my hate. I mark my skin with that knife.

But not today. I'm breaking that habit. The red would ruin the white of the snow. The scar would ruin another spot on my skin. The hate, of others, and myself, would scar souls.

I never wanted to scar.

I take out the knife, and for a moment, I might just do it. Cut.

I throw the knife into the middle of the street. The snowplower goes by, and scoops it up; if he hadn't, I might have run for it.

But I didn't, and it feet great. No more. That weight of guilt in my pocket. Gone.

"Chessie," calls An-- no, not Anna, Mom.

And I look back, and see the footprints in the snow, and they look glorious.

Unlike most, I could see my steps toward freedom.