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Nothing is Ever Black and White
He trudged through the snow. His black boots ripped up the crystal white fluff and spit it around. He stopped and groaned at the frozen thought that snow had entered his secure and warm boot. He crumpled his fingers as they entered his boot to try and grasp the cold, wet snow. He stood up and made a loud yelp at the sky knowing that no one had heard him. He continued walking through the snow, feeling his warm breath backfire against the mask guarding his mouth. He stopped yet again to remove his black mask to take a large breath of air and see the open world without something severing himself from it. His long black hair fell out of his mask and he threw his head back and forth to shake it out. He looked ahead of him to see the vastness of Arctic. The large, frozen white blanket coating the earth. He reached into his black jacket to pull out his camera. He shot a photo, and placed the camera back into his soft and fuzzy pocket. He had a quick thought, and then took the camera out of his pocket once more. He flipped through his pictures and was reminded of his dark past. A past he tried so hard to escape, and it was catching up to him.
His thoughts were interrupted by the sight of an animal. It was very unusual to see a caribou-like creature in the distance. He was unsure whether or not it was a caribou, but he had a good chance at having a big meal for dinner. He took out a gun from his other pocket and shot at the caribou until it fell to the ground. He was unsure whether or not it fell into a crevasse or ran away. He quickly gave up, and let out a sigh of disappointment. He watched his breath lift into the air and dissipate before his eyes. He then began to waddle home.
Regret, was the only thing running through his mind as he went home. He wished he could start again. Begin a new life. Could that even be possible? Is it possible that someone can run away from all civilization and live in the Arctic without anyone else there? Possible or impossible, he was doing it.
He had arrived to his home in the middle of the snowy nowhere a few moments later. He opened the door and sat down on a cold and lifeless chair to remove his boots. The room was dark. He was unsure whether or not he wanted to light a fire, to add a spark to pierce the dark. He decided to make a fire.
He sat on the side of the room that the light from the fire had not penetrated. He ran his scratched and scarred hand through his smooth, black hair. He let out a deep, painful sigh, only this time, his breath was not visible to him as it had been outside. He enjoyed the quiet, the peace, the tranquility. The feeling of being alone gave him a glimpse of happiness which was defiled by the reminder of his accident, leaving scars that would never fade. Regret swarmed around in his thoughts like a cloud of locusts. He regretted befriending half of the people he had met and regretted his feelings for the women he had met. Everything had changed when that one fateful night came upon him.
The locusts violently scattered at the sound of a scream. He jumped up out of his chair, impatiently awaiting another yelp to see who else was out in his bleak world. He put his hands on top of his black hair and took in a deep breath hoping it was his imagination. He had not seen another person since he ran away, since it was him against the world. Another scream pierced the frozen air, and he dashed out of his door and ran through the snow desperately seeking the focal point of the scream. He threw his head to left and then to the right with his black hair flying back and forth. He desperately tried to get a breath of air into his lungs before having to run again. He was still trying to squeeze his black gloves onto his hands. The cold made such a simple job difficult. But he suddenly stopped when he had found what he was looking for. Yet, it turned out that is was not a what that he was looking for, but rather, a who he was looking for.
A man was lying in the snow. It took him a second to see the man in snow because he was wearing a white jacket. But when he got closer, he noticed that the snow had turned red. The man’s stark white jacket was slowly turning scarlet. The color was swiftly moving outward from a single hole in the jacket. He stopped and stared at the man for a few moments realizing this was the “caribou.” He was suddenly hit by reality when the man let out another scream. He threw himself onto the ground and opened the man’s white jacket to get a look at the gunshot wound. He pried off the man’s jacket to see the damage he had caused to the man. Another cloud of locusts swarmed yet again, only this time, they were swarming out of guilt. The man looked up at him and his pain suddenly ceased. The man felt nothing.
“Markus?” the man cautiously said. Markus placed his bare and naked hand onto the ground and lifted himself up off of the ground. He gave the man a deadly stare with his eyes burning holes into the other man’s fore head. He swiftly wrapped his hands around the man’s legs and dragged him through the snow until they got to his house.
Markus sat on the dark side of the room. The light of the fire was unable to crawl to the other side of the room. The wounded man sat by the fire, breathing heavily.
“How did you find me?” Markus asked him.
“It took me a long time Markus.”
“I spent the last eight years running from you, I covered up my tracks!”
“Obviously not well enough.”
“What are you going to do to me? Because I swear to God I will do anything to protect my family! I’ll get revenge. You will see. Your petulant little life will be no more when I’m done with you! I…will do whatever I have to!”
Markus began pacing the room but refused to step onto the light side of the room. The man was still huddled over by the fire, afraid of what Markus might do to him even though he didn’t know his true intentions. The man, dressed in white, pulled the towel off of his bullet wound with his white gloves to see what it looked like. He took one look and groaned. The sight of blood made him queasy. He wanted to leave and go back to his family in Florida. He wanted to feel the sun on his skin and breathe the tasty, salty air of the beach. He wanted to sit in his white convertible and drive through Miami with the wind blowing through his graying hair. He wanted to tell Markus why he was really in the Arctic. Yet, he was cautious because he had no idea of how Markus would react. Markus was dangerous. Unfortunately, the wounded man had learned such a fact that hard way. Then, the man used all of his strength and his energy to muster up the words he needed Markus to know before anything else happened. Markus needed to know.
“Markus….I…..c-c-came here to--” The man’s head slowly fell, unable to receive support from his neck that had became as supportive as one small piece of string. He stared up at the ceiling and imagined the sunny skies of Florida. The sun was beaming down on his face and he was smiling with the largest smile a person could possibly have. He felt warm, not because of the fire, but because of the joy running through his blood. His wife was standing next to him, holding his hand with her delicate fingers and his children were running around. He took in a deep breath which became his last. The fire stopped crackling. His heart stopped beating. Markus threw open the door and left.
Little did Markus know the man had come to apologize.