10.09.2013

The Beautiful, White Snow

Photo by Kate Ter Haar
“I’m just so damn tired, I can tell you that”.

The large, grey old man had his hand pressed against the cup. The coffee was still hot but it seemed he didn’t care much. He drank a long sip as if it was cold coke in the middle of the summer. It was winter, though, and the coffee was still hot.

“I’m tired of being tired. I’m tired of not knowing”, said the large, grey old man. “I’m tired of your not answering me”. The other man, lying on the floor, said nothing. Not like dead people can talk, anyway.
The large, grey old man left the steaming cup on the edge of the table next to him, stood up with great effort and walked towards the window. He could see the snow from there, the beautiful, white snow.

“Don’t tell me it was a mistake”, said the large, grey old man. “I had to do it, son. There wasn’t any other way”. The other man, lying on the floor, a knife stabbed deep in his throat, said nothing, again. Next to him, warm blood covered the floor. The large, grey old man had killed him not ten minutes ago.

“If anything, it was your fault, son, you never told me a thing, damn it!” The eyes of the large, grey old man had a dim glare, his entire soul lost in the beautiful, white snow beyond the window. “It was your fault”, said he again, in a whisper, before his sloppy hands opened the window. The large, grey old man felt the cold breeze in his face. He could feel his tears freezing as they ran down his face.

“I wish you could tell me it wasn’t a mistake”, said the large, grey old man, lowering his head, as if he couldn’t stand the weight of it, his fists closing ever so strongly. “I wish you could just say something, anything”.


Suddenly a blasting gust of wind made the large, grey old man stop crying and turn round. The door was open. On the floor there was only blood and on the table a blood-covered knife next to an empty cup of coffee. The large, grey old man thought he had heard a soft voice say goodbye, but that couldn’t be possible. He leant on the table trying not to faint and could see, clearly as day, how a red trace got lost beyond the door, in the beautiful, white snow.

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