Snowfall

“Crap, crap, crap, crap, crap--” Somehow, I manage to barely maneuver past the branches and boulders while I race down the mountainside at an alarming speed. I continue to mutter under my breath my unique repetition of profanities, “Crap, crap, crap, crap, CRAP!”

The man never sees me coming.

We collide with each other like a lit fuse and a bomb, resulting in an explosion of skis, snow, and bodies flying everywhere. I feel my arms, legs, and neck being pushed and pulled as I roll off to the side and come to a slow stop at a nearby snowbank. My face is pressed into the snow, and I lie there for a moment as the numbness starts to creep in. The only thought I can think of is: at least I’ve stopped moving. 

With a groan, I push myself up from the frozen ground, shakily stand up, and look around. I can tell that I am relatively fine just from those brief movements. It’s a miracle. Everything hurts, but that’s something to be expected when you crash into someone after hurtling down a mountain at a crazy speed. I take a shaky step forward, then another, until my concentration on not falling into the snow is interrupted by an agonized cry of pain.

“Someone, help me. Please.”

I cuss under my breath as I realize that there was someone else here. The man. The poor man. I start to run toward where I think the sound is coming from, but I am stopped when my foot plunges through the snow until my midthigh is barely uncovered. 

“Help! Please!”

The cries are growing more frantic now and so am I. I struggle to pull myself out then start to crawl across the snow. A few minutes later, I am panting and huffing but beginning to see a dark shape that I believe is the man.

However, when I crawl closer, it becomes clear that the sounds are coming from a dark bag lying on top of the snow. I swallow hard.

“Is anyone there? Please, help me!”

“Hello?” I whisper. I don’t know why my voice is so quiet. It might be from the sudden fear I have. Fear that I have done more than just crash into a random person. I may have just interrupted something far more dangerous.

“Hello?” The voice is a whisper, mimicking my tone. “Can you help me please?”

I start to crawl over to the bag until I am able to sit up in front of it. My mind screams at me to just run away. Leave the stupid bag and get the heck away from all this stuff. This isn’t your business. Don’t interfere.

But I can’t help myself.

My fingers fumble in my thick gloves as I try to grasp the zipper. I rip one off and watch my hands as I unzip the canvas material. The sound seems to cut through the silence, echoing across the valley and ringing in my ears. I go slowly, my emotions threatening to overcome me in an instant. I grip both sides of the bag and peer inside.

Yet there is no person. Instead, a variety of weapons and shovels are scattered inside. Some are tinted with spots of red, gleaming dangerously in the sudden beam of sunlight.

I fall backward in fear, my ungloved, right hand plunging into the snow and instantly beginning to burn with cold pain. My chest shakes as I struggle to control my thoughts and my breathing. 

There was a voice. I know there was a voice. But there was no person. Am I crazy? Maybe. Yes? No? And the weapons? What about them? 

“You idiot!” 

“Crap!” I barely stop myself from screaming in terror as the hushed voice silences my cold, swirling thoughts. 

“Did you actually think I was in the bag?”

I sigh in relief, I’m not crazy, and turn to face the direction where the sound is coming from. Under a tree sits a young man with his feet and hands tied together. I sit and stare at him for a moment, taking in his appearance. Around the guy’s neck sits a bandana, but, from its damp, crumpled look, I am guessing it had been previously used as a gag. The man is covered in cuts and bruises, and his left eye is swollen, along with his lip. His shoulders are visibly shaking-- he's probably freezing. My main concern, though, is the huge red shape seeping through the man’s tank top.

“Can you get up and come help me please?” I tilt my head till I meet the man’s eyes and nod slowly.

Yet I am filled with doubt.

I have to help him, right?

What kind of a person would I be if I didn’t help him?

But what am I doing to myself if I do?

I crawl back over to the bag, and my hand hesitates over the variety of weaponry inside. I find a small knife, grasp it tightly, then start to make my way over to the man. When I am about three feet away, I stop and shift my weight until I am sitting in front of him. He scowls.

“I’m bleeding to death and you can’t bring yourself to come untie my freaking hands? Instead, you sit there like an idiot. What a selfish, typical, bit--”

His voice is hushed and furious, and I fake my confident tone as I interrupt his rant, “I am not letting you near me or out from your bonds until you tell me what is going on. Why are you here? Who was that man?” I take out my knife and hold it in the most nonchalant way I can. Inside, I am laughing at myself because I probably look ridiculous. Shivering, dressed in thick ski clothes, and trying to be intimidating. I shake my head and turn back to the man, trying to convey with my eyes that he won’t leave until I get an answer.

The man seems to understand, and he sighs, “I am in trouble, okay? Deep trouble. This guy was about to go use his fancy weapons on me until you came barreling down the slope and miraculously ran him over.” Pausing, the man nods his head over to my left. “But we have to go. I have to go. He’s gonna kill me. And you’ve already wasted enough time, crawling around like a stupid caterpillar or something. He has a gun. A freaking gun. And now, you’re trying to be all tough with a stupid knife. Well, hero,” the guy spits this word out at me in disgust, “come slit these ropes and get me the heck out of here.”

We sit there in silence until I hear faint rustling back from where I had come from. The other man was coming. I was screwed. I had to go. Now.

“No,” I mutter, “I don’t trust you.”

“What?” The man shrieks.

“I… I have to go.”

The man looks at me incredulously as I slowly stand up and take a deep breath. I have to run. No matter how deep my feet sink. No matter how many times I stumble. I start to step away, but the man desperately reaches for me with his body and ends up toppling forward. His face is plunged into the snow.

“Please, I’m sorry! Just help me! I don’t want to die.” He squirms to face me.

The rustling is getting closer. I can hear the shuffling made as the other person starts to draw nearer. I look at the weak, cowering man before me and feel a surge of pity.

But I have to go.

I crouch down and cut the ropes on the man’s hands, then I throw down the knife in front of him. “Here.”

With that, I take off running, scrambling, and pushing myself to my limits as I fight through the snow like a determined soldier. It feels like I have been traveling for miles before I slow down. I pull myself behind a tall tree and collapse. My chest rises with each breath I take, while my adrenaline and animal-like instincts fighting for my survival slowly die with each one. I stare at the white abyss around me with exhaustion and start to close my eyes.

I think about the men, both of them. Did he survive? I’m not sure which one I am pondering about, the killer or the victim, but I know they both won’t walk away alive.

But it’s not my fight.

I continue to lie down for a few more minutes, dwelling on that thought. A gunshot sounds in the distance, breaking my concentration and slightly stirring my mind. I want to feel pity. Fear. Anger. Guilt. But there’s nothing. My mind screams at me that I have done something wrong. That I need to go.

But I am too tired for this.

“Shut up,” I mumble to myself, before turning onto my side and facing the sun, feeling a surge of gratitude for its warmth and light. I feel a wet prick on my nose as a snowflake falls onto me. I close my eyes with a smile. Then, I sleep.