Violet Hill

The only sound you hear is your own breathing. Relaxed and slow, controlled, following the pace you were taught to keep. In and out through your nose to keep your mouth closed - you cannot afford to lose heat in the snow. In and out.

Pace.

Tick. Tock.

Your right eye is scanning the white landscape through the sight, following the dot as it scans over snow-covered fields and buildings, over trees and traffic lights long now extinguished, over old fire marks and holes in the ground.

Tick. Tock.

The silence is incredible when you hold your breath. Not a bird is heard, not an animal dares venture into the cold, no people around talking about clearing up the snow. No children playing. No women laughing. No cars. No footsteps.

Breathe again and you shatter the outworldly silence with your steam-engine like noises. You shift your weight slightly to ease the tension on your neck, you take your eye off the sight only for a second, you move your fingers in your woolen gloves. Close your eyes, you can close your eyes, it's only for a second.

A snowflake lands on the tip of your nose startling you. How long have you been out for? Your posture is still the same, your hand clutched around the handle of your rifle, your head is still upright. It couldn't have been more than a second and yet it could have been hours for all you know. You saw her again when you closed your eyes, didn't you? Her smile, her long fingers, her hazel eyes. It's too risky to sigh, but you can still bite your lip hard, teeth over the marks of the previous bites.

Tick. Tock.

You breathe again. You wonder if you'll even feel the bullet when it comes. You hope you'll at least hear it, a different sound in the quiet that is your reallity now.

You hope you'll feel the bullet.

You pray you'll feel the bullet.

You won't.