White As Snow

The textbook definition of a murderer is “someone who commits the crime of murder; the unlawfull killing of another human being without jusitifaction or plausiable/ moral intent”. 

I don’t really like it. 

I feel that the title “murderer” demeans one as a person. It's a crude, derogatory term reserved for the lowest of the low. 

Look, if someone asked me what I did for a living, I would say I was an “artisan”. Technically a murderer, but an artisan all the same. It’s just that, instead of brushes and paint, I deal with knives and blood.

If you think about it, both a painter and a serial killer, or someone like me at least, strive for the same thing. To create a masterpiece. Something that’ll last throughout time, forever etched within the brains of the human populous. I suppose that’s why many of the more successful ones have adopted nicknames. 

“The Mad Butcher”

“The Lethal Lovers”

“Jack the Ripper”

“The Crossbow Cannibal”

“The BTK Killer”

 Me? “The Crimson Snowstorm”. It used to be “The Crimson Knight” , but it didn’t quite sit right with me. It made me sound like someone wandering around with a maroon batman suit. It was a truly pathetic nickname. Utterly lacking in creativity. So, to show what true artistry looked like, I went over to the editor’s house. Slit the throats of his family, bleeding their blood into a bathtub and drowned the said editor in it afterwards. He was an absolute wreck, but the wife, the wife, she had the balls of the family. She offered to sacrifice herself to save her children and, being the gentleman I am, I said yes. Being the artisan I am, I immediately made the kids eat their mother’s body. The despair and sadness was truly a fitting memorial for the rookie cop that stumbled on to the scene. Last time I checked, she was still stuck in the looney bin. 

Ah, I do love the occasional trip down the memory lane.

So anyhow, I’m keeping this journal as a record. A confession if you're a lawyer. A case Study if you’re a psychologist. A source of inspiration if you’re a screenwriter. Your next episode if you’re a true crime podcast host. A little peek in my artist’s mind for those of you not blessed with the creativity or skill god has given me. 

It’s snowing buckets outside, so you’ll have to wait for more behind the scenes of my masterpieces. The contrast of pure white snow against the crimson tone of fresh blood is too pleasing off an opportunity to pass up. And besides, I’ve never frozen someone to death before. 

I wonder how that would affect blood. 

Perhaps I could prepare popsicles for the fine, hardworking officers that eventually stumble on to my work.

I wonder how sturdy lemur bones are?

___________________________________________

He was cold. Very cold. The snowstorm had whipped up into such a frenzy that he barely could see his own hand in front of his face. At least it would make the cop’s job much harder. 

He trudged through the forest, now reduced to nothing more than a bunch of glorified icicles standing upright, with machete in one hand and taser in another. He didn’t like guns. Never did. Probably never will. It took away the thrill of the hunt, the intimacy of the kill as if it were. He preferred his victims alive, preferably bound. The look in their eyes as he cut them apart with a knife was intoxicating. So particularly so that he actually kept them.

Occasionally.

It paired well with fish curry. 

It had been nearly an hour since he went out and, at this point, he was getting pissed off. He’d only been walking, trudging along in an endless white road with little to no landmarks to guide him. It was like limbo, if limbo existed. Endless walking within a painting where the artist took minimalism a little but too seriously. 

Fuck this shit, he thought. The first person I see will become a masterpiece. Albeit a bloody one, but one nonetheless. 

Is it possible to hang someone with a noose made of their stomach intestines?

He glanced to the side, and saw a faint silhouette, but a silhouette nonetheless. His heart skipped a beat. It was a female. His lips dripped in anticipation. He still remembered the editor’s wife and the thought of another experience, another mural akin to her, was a couple notches almost short of a sexual experience for him.

He walked up towards the woman, stalking her silently to a small cabin. It was a small, humble cabin. Wooden pillars and metal doors, and with a glance of his trained eye, he smiled. No electricity. No internet, not with the minimal roads leading up to it. There may even be no phone service. He would be able to spend days, if not weeks playing with her before having to leave.

He continued walking upwards, the previously annoying snow now providing an excellent cover. The silhouette stopped, getting off what seemed to be a sled. It was then a second silhouette appeared. A male out of all things. Maybe a couple? Oh, he thought to himself, I must be real lucky today. 

He stepped forwards, a lighting fast lunge perfected over the years of him killing. Taser to the woman and the machete to the man. Once he had the female hostage, her boyfriend would think twice about attacking him if his girlfriend’s neck was on the line. 

The taser made contact, buzzing thousand upon thousands of volts in the woman’s body as he swung the machete against the male’s neck. The male brought up his arm, and in some kind of awe, the would-be killer watched as the machete shattered into a thousand pieces. He looked over to the female in panic, only to see her merely glance down at the taser as if it were a fly not even worth swatting away. 

He looked back and forth in confusion. 

“He did well”, the male’s voice emitted from within the coat. It was ice cold, a chilling expressionless voice capable of reducing one’s spine into nothing but mush. 

“Well indeed”, the female replied. Her voice was more calming to her, almost a melody, as if the beauty of a snow capped mountain was put within a person. 

He was speechless. Distraught. Confused. However, those feelings were soon gone once the duo lowered down their hoods. Their hair were white. Pure white, standing out even in the midst of the snow storm surrounding them. Their eyes were highly saturated azure. Their skin paled against the navy blue of their coats, highlighting the flawlessness of their bodies. They looked like two statues that have come to life, so unnaturally perfect in their wondrous beauty and fear. 

The killer was left in shock, unable to hear the couple talking over the wind of the storm. The female giggled, and the male laughed along. They looked back at each other, and when the female nodded, they started walking towards him, their postures befitting of royalty. 

He backed up, scrambling to get away somehow. He got up, and was about to start running before he tripped over a snow covered branch, falling down next to the tree. He heard the male laugh, a cruel melodic orchestra of sounds ringing throughout the forest. 

“You’ve got balls, my guy. It’s impressive really, escaping my girlfriend’s clutches like that. Most people wouldn’t be able to stand up so much next to her. You’re the first person to do it in what? 500? 600 years or so?”

The killer tried to get up, only to immediately lose feeling in his legs and arms. 

“Oh, yeah, don’t bother. She’s improved over the decades. Well, ever since the whole fiasco with Kay and Gerda. She’s done nothing but improve.”

He looked down at the would-be serial killer. 

“What’s your name?”, he asked.

“Wh-a-t’-s m-y na-aame?”

“Yes, for fuck’s sake, what’s your name?”

“Th-e Cri-mso-n Sno-wst-orm”

“The Crimson Snowstorm eh?”, he said it as if he was learning a new word, slow and articulate. “The Crimson Snowstorm. Hey babe, wasn’t there a news article about this guy? On the newspaper that we found on the way here.”

He looked around in panic, and sure enough, the female was standing behind him. There had been no steps nor sound. She. Just. Appeared. 

“Wh-a-aat?” 

“Another one of her tricks”, the dude replied with the sweetness of a venomous snake. He bent down towards his ear. “Between me and you old sport, I’d advise you not to piss her off right now. She’s in a particularly sour mood.”. He looked back up. “Wasn’t there?”.

“Serial killer. Over 50 confirmed kills if I remember correctly? Half of his victims were boys, the other half girls. The modern day Jack the Ripper is what they called him. Oh, and he also likes to toture his victims before killing them.” She replied rather cold heartedly. 

“A serial killer eh?”. The male turned towards the killer, “Nice to meet you Mr. Crismon Snowstorm.” He extended his hand out, as if for a handshake, with a smile that would put the fear in the devil himself to accompany it.

“I froze his arms”, the female said. 

“Oh. OH.” He stood back up, looking down at him as if he were nothing more than an ant. “Sorry about that old chap. Let me introduce myself.” 

“I’m Jack Frost, and my lovely girlfriend next to me, well, you humans would call her the Snow Queen.”

He tapped, making a big show of it no less, with one finger on the tip of the killer’s boots. He then got up, shaking off the snow off his coat before taking his girlfriend by the hand.

"Now, If you won't mind, me and my girlfriend have a tropical vacation to enjoy."

The couple turned around, walking away when the male looked back, giving him a quick wave.

“Say hi to the devil for me old chap, and tell him that we’re still on for dinner next week.”

The snow enveloped them both, a flash of heroin white and they both just disappeared. He looked around, and in a sigh of relief, slowly inched up to a sitting position before he felt something that scared him more than being roasted alive. 

It started as a tingling feeling on his toe, before slowly spreading upwards towards his body. A virus he thought, as he quickly tried to get up, but his leg wouldn’t budge. 

Fear started creeping in as realization set. He was being frozen to death. Not hypothermia. Not frostbite. Somehow that fucker managed to freeze him from his internal organs.

Stabbing pains shot throughout his body as more and more of his body was slowly becoming ice. He’d somehow become more sensitive, and he doubled over with pain as more and more of his body was frozen. Blood. Stomach fluids. His bladder. He even felt little pinpricks of ice sliding through the membranes of his bones and breaking within. 

By some cruel nature, whether by intentional design or not, the magic virus avoided his vital organs. His eyes were frozen. Brain frozen. Arms. Legs. Stomach. Gentillia. He was left lying there, silently screaming, because his mouth was also frozen, as slowly his heart also got frozen too.

He then shattered, a gorey explosion as every part of his body quite literally combusted into pieces. The snowstorm claimed him, the pure white of the snow mixing nicely with the maroon tinge of his blood. 

The killer died as he lived. The one and only Crimson Snowstorm.