She lay on the darkened, snowy forest floor, on her right side. The gentle snowflakes fell on her wide-eyed face. Some almost fell into her eyes and yet, they felt so far away. Nothing but the pain in her left side mattered. The arrow, the source of the pain, the unwanted visitor, jiggled itself deeper into her flesh as she panted. Her hands clasped the entrance wound and the shaft. She wheezed.

Most of her thoughts were jumbled, encrypted messages obfuscated by agony and panic. Only two quick questions were clear between frayed breaths, a silent mental spiral.

"Why?"

"Who?"

She did not notice the footsteps. Heavy boots crunched the fresh snow behind her. The unnamed kneeled down and slightly leaned over her, just enough for her peripheral vision to catch the silhouette. Her panic soared anew. The skin on her back electrified. She strained her eyes to the side, trying to see more of the shadow. Her body felt encased in stone. She could not turn her head.

"It is not often that I hunt in winter." She flinched at the soft male voice. It felt like another arrow. She held her breath. Her focus shifted to her ears and the snowfall became loud.

"Not often. Rare. I do not like winter. I saw you and had to make an exception."

The unnamed man slowly stroked her arm. His touch felt profane. She shivered, wailing internally.

"You might be the most graceful one. Little deer."

The effect of his touch and words spread through her, polluting her. Her heart thudded against her bones, desperately trying to get her body to react, get up, run, anything. Little did she know, her heart was assisting in her ruin. The feeling of pollution was not entirely unfounded. She was being engulfed by venom that had been tenderly applied to the arrow tip ravenously burrowing into her body.

The man stood up and stepped over her, crushing the snow in front of her face. He turned and kneeled down again, facing her. Through hazy eyes she looked up at him. A red moustache and blue eyes were the only sources of color amid a ghostly face and black winter wear. He smirked arrogantly. She was a toy to him.

A small ember of rage glimmered in her slowing mind. It was quickly snuffed out by advancing unconsciousness. Terror slipped away, too. Her ears began to ring. The ringing outsang the snowfall. The man's face became smaller and smaller as her vision faded. Her eyes closed. Her hands fell limp from the arrow in her side.

From his vantage point, she looked almost peaceful now. The blood from her side trickled down onto the snow. "Looks like a snow cone," he thought. How amusing. He stood up and glanced around the dark woods. There wouldn't be light for quite some time; there was cover to bring her home.

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By Adaline Guerra