The snow started about nine last. I left my curtain open so I could watch from bed where I lay reading a romantic love story. I took periodic breaks from the trials and tribulations of being a teenager in love with a vampire to watch the large, soft flakes fly on their indirect journeys to the ground. They drifted back and forth, up and down in an un-orchestrated, impromptu ballet. I pictured myself weightlessly suspended in air with such freedom of movement and was envious. True, pure love must be like this.
This morning the flakes bear no resemblance to last night’s. The micro-pellets of frozen precipitation seek any living thing into which to fling themselves with enough force to cause pain and endanger the being's life. Given enough time, these flakes, with the wind as accomplice, will murder all within their path and quickly descend in impossibly large numbers to cover the evidence of their crime. Within minutes the corpse will be covered with a fine layer of white oblivion. In a quarter hour, only a slight lump in the surrounding terrain will belie death's presence. An hour later no visual evidence will reveal the murder. Only days later, when the sun comes back out, murdering the microscopic murders, will their horrid crime be revealed.
My minuscule inspirations have me contemplating a life of control, revenge and freedom. I'm no longer the sweet human. I'm now the violent, fearsome vampire and I want to be untouchable by societal consequences. The sun will not even be powerful enough to end my existence for I am omnipotent. True, pure power must be like this.
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