He was of the unfairly complacent sort-the sort of boring and drab, illiterate old brute one commonly finds living on the Western Plain, maintaining what could hardly be considered a livelihood with a cow, a mule, and a dozen acres of poor crops. Men like him need not fear the slightest chance of loathing from another soul, for any one who he congregated with would be of the same tiresome mindset as he.

I had the misfortune of relying on this man during a desolating blizzard; my dear aunt had been ill for many years, and I feared her passing would reach her before I did if I did not go to visit her with haste. This trip, perhaps regrettably, was inadequately considered. I had not ventured from my mansion for many months, having much poetry flowing through my pen onto paper and much prose tossed about in my skull. The impending demise of my mother's sister, however, caused my intent focus on literature to waver for many hours. This, being a rare and frightening anomaly, forced me to contemplate the matter of absconding my beloved sanctuary for an undetermined amount of time.

When the sun was next repeating its unending act of pursuing the moon, I had settled on the perilous resolution of a stay with my Aunt Margaret. I discussed it with Christopher, the hired help, and we settled on the terms of his compensation for residing in my home for the month or so that I'd be away.

Not long after my departure, a menacing cloud rolled across the horizon to the West. It was early November, and the weather's bitterness acted as a distraction for me in my withdrawal from poetry. As the driver urged the pair of horses onward, I scribbled numerous contradictory descriptions of the consoling and daunting landscape that surrounded us. In small and unspecific paragraphs, I summed up the dark sky, stark trees, and barren fields.

Soon the snow came. It was not the standard powdery dusting that sometimes flurried down this time of year; these were monstrous, soggy flakes that piled up quickly to blockade the road. The horses could not be coaxed to continue until the stagecoach was separated and abandoned in the growing drifts. Even with the obvious dangers that accompanied proceeding, I could not shake the incessant impulse to reach my aunt. This one compulsory idea was all that urged me forth westward through the unrelenting storm.

The driver implored that I return to my home with him.

"It's so cold," he slyly attempted to divert my focus from my quest. "I had no idea it was going to be this cold. Are you sure you want to go?" The pleading in his eyes was apparent, but my heart was frozen by the unfavorable prospect of returning to the home that offered no sanctuary for me.

"It isn't that cold. We're nearly there anyway."

"But it's only going to get colder..." He watched the clouds dubiously as they seemed to grow darker at an impossible rate. "We should go back."

I refused.

He continued to entreat, beseeching that I not be foolish enough to attempt an act that was almost guaranteed suicide, but I nevertheless bore an adamant refusal to allowing reason and sound judgment to prevent me from reaching my destination.

Therefore, I trekked onward alone, cajoling the steed to travel with haste across the snow-covered plain that we had finally reached. Our progression was slight, and the icy flecks that drifted down from the sinister abbyss that loomed above grew ever greater and more numerous. The raw atmosphere gnawed at my eyes, forcing its way into my brain - into my mind.

I was doomed; everyone had abandoned me to be left here alone in this bitter wasteland that was inhabited only by ice and fear, but I would not be beaten - I could not be defeated. I resolved to survive this ordeal, and, by mere obstinacy toward decease, sought out any refuge to be found.

The wretched rescue I stumbled upon was an old and uninteresting farmhouse, inside which resided an insipid creature who called himself Jeremiah Bolton. Upon entering his expectedly drab abode, I noticed nothing extraordinary or interesting. It was a fairly large house, built to endure countless years of living. The man welcomed me wholeheartedly into his comfortable residence when I explained to him my predicament.

"Be careful of Douglas. He's still a pup, 'n he's likely to love yer leg if'n ya' let 'im," he grinned toward his collie, whose eyes were as dull and unintelligent as his master's.

Bolton was delighted to allow me to accompany him for the remainder of the dreadful weather. I graciously excused myself to retire for the night after partaking in a mind-numbing chat over my host's German descent. The room I was to sleep in was small and the bed lumpy. This was anticipated though, so I accepted it, as I did the rest of the dreadfully boring life this man kept.

For an unnaturally lengthy trio of days, I tolerated his ignorant and miserable existence. It seemed that at one point he had been an exceptional character; he served in the Mexican-American War. A conveniently placed pocket watch his friend had gifted him had saved his life. It forever thereafter contained a bullet, and it claimed that the time was always 11:58. He had nightmares each night, which, though I'm certain were horrid, doubtlessly did not rival my own in dimension or terror. He walked with a rhythmic limp, for he had heroically taken a shot to the hip. His left canine had a sizeable chunk broken off due to the inopportune timing of the blast of a cannon which coincided with a misstep of Jeremiah. These things would have been mildly intriguing - would have sparked my interest - if not for the slow and deliberate voice he bore when telling them. The sound was like that of a sledgehammer thumping into the mounds of snow outside: monotone.

I was as cordial and pleasant as I could ever aspire to be for these initial days, and I did not house any feelings of hatred. I aided and assisted as best I could with the simple tasks he allowed me to do. My favorite was milking his cow, which I had dubbed as Clarice: the only sign of intelligent life in the near vicinity. Though the man seemed courageous and loyal, his cleverness was exceedingly lacking.

Near dusk on the third day, as I was being enlightened on the subject of grinding hamburger meat in the least correct fashion I'd yet heard, I had a sudden and violent revelation.

I loathed the man seated before me.

His limp, his dark and unkempt hair, his dull and chipped teeth - all of these things stirred within me a deep and undeniable sense of contempt and hatred. His contentment with the mundane and irrevocably monotonous, the delight he found in the simple things that I saw only as hindrances to be overcome, the manner with which he continued to live without any reason to do so - he was a mockery to mankind, scandalous in his ways of pretending he was satisfied. He was not happy; he was not joyful. He was deceiving me; he desired my envy - my jealousy.

I would not relinquish them to the likes of him, an ordinary veteran farmer.

Therefore, as he spoke of the improper method by which he ground beef, I contemplated the means by which I would seek revenge on his selfish and fraudulent soul. After we both retired for the night, I lay in bed speculating. What things had this man to be proud of? His mind was dull; his appearance was unpleasant. His house, though large and well-build, was unimpressive and not comparable to mine in grandeur.

What had he that I had not?

Clarice.

An unmistakable sense of mourning washed over me as I realized what I was going to do. I wisely waited for the moans of war to flood in from Bolton's bedroom before rising. The snow continued to fall - as it had for the past three days - while I entered the barn throught the low, wooden doorway. The warmth of Clarice radiated through the air and numbed my bones. I spent a moment there with her; I traced my fingers along her firm, broad back. I led her outside, and she followed submissively. Her eyes held in them so much trust and faith. She was totally content in my company.

This thought - contentment - chilled my blood. I felt my mouth twist into a vindictive sneer before I thrust the knife between her warm ribs.

I disfigured and marred the carcass until it was a steaming pile of flesh in the now red drift. White flakes continued to fall, ensuring that my tracks would be hidden by morning and that the cow's corpse would be difficult to analyze. I, of course, would suggest that desperate coyotes had mauled the poor animal. I washed away the blood in the snow and ambled up to bed.

On the following morning, I went out to complete my self-assigned task of milking, only to let out a dismayed shout and come barreling back into the kitchen. I led Bolton out to the carcass, which was now half buried in pink snow. I watched his face with a smugness that was masked as horrified awe. However, there was no sign of devastation - no visible indication that he had been scarred or upset. He bent down to inspect the body more closely. When he returned to his former position, he stated off-handedly that it was probably the work of coyotes. It wasn't a new incident.

I was livid.

I looked in the man's eyes and for a moment saw recognition. He knew that I had committed this heinous act. He knew that I had anticipated the grandeur of his misery, and so he had simply brushed it aside as a common act of wild beasts. I remained stationary in the snow as he retreated into his home. Here is when the idea to murder him entered my mind.

I was not practiced at this; never before had the thought of slaughter occurred to me. There was just something about this man's nonchalant manner that was absolutely infuriating. I knew I could not stand it much longer. I would have to leave, or he would have to.

The snow kept me ensnared and was something far too complex to alter. Bolton, however, was more easily removable. There was but a single small thing that beat in his chest, one easily attainable organ that would satisfy me to an extent I'd never felt before.

All day I forged a smile - let my tolerance linger on my appearance - while inside I was plotting. I was generating a plan to make my stay in this plain home extraordinary.

When the sun had finally forsaken us in its lunar pursuit, Bolton and I exchanged polite tidings and retired to our separate rooms.

"I think I'm going to bed," I said, eager to put an end to the evening at hand.

"A'right. I reckon I'll be in bed shortly m'self," Bolton drawled. "Do ya think it'll snow tomorrow?" He winked.

With a convincing smile, I lied, "I suppose we'll see, won't we?"

I did not undress, feeling that my wardrobe would be anything but insignificant when I looked back on the day I executed Jeremiah Bolton. I lay in bed, hearing nothing but the low howl of the frigid wind and the regular sounds of an old house. I waited patiently for time to creep past me - waited for the sounds of war-filled nightmares to reach my eager ears. I waited. For hours, no sound came. Then there were footsteps in the hallway. The rhythm was thrown askew by Bolton's insufferable limp, the second beat always being louder, more obvious, than the first. Anger filled my mind as I lay still in bed. His steps travelled down the stairs and coiled to the room beneath me. For a brief moment I wondered why he would be there, in the parlor. However, this was a fleeting thought which passed even more quickly than it had come, and I found myself taking silent steps down the dark hallway. The stairs dared not creak as I gingerly placed my foot upon each one sequentially. Upon reaching the bottom of the staircase, I paused. He was just around the corner, alive, breathing. Within a few moments, Jeremiah Bolton would be dead. I was vivacious as I took the last few steps around the corner.

The scene before me filled me with bewilderment.

The figure of Bolton was silhouetted by the firelight, and there was the sharp gleam of a pistol in his right hand. I was astonished by his perception, for how could he have better prepared himself for an attack? He must somehow have discovered my intentions and now was planning to murder me. A sickening feeling spread smoothly through my body, and I swiftly retreated back up the staircase. At the top of the stairs, I remained still, listening intently for the sound of his pace. Even if my escapade had somehow gone unnoticed, Bolton would surely be on his way now to kill me, yet I heard nothing. There was no rhythm of uneven thumps; there were not even the natural noises of an old house.

A thousand thoughts emerged in my mind at once. Perhaps I was deaf, for there was not even the sound of my own breath being recognized by my intent and unsatisfied ears. Perhaps I was dead, for I found that there was no breath being taken in by my empty lungs. Blindness was a possibility also, for there was no vision. Maybe what I was experiencing was coma, for there seemed to be no sensation at all. There was only the intense and unceasing dread, only that incessant pulse of urgency that drives one to expect a sudden death. My mind was unresponsive, which was unquestionably the most terrifying aspect of the situation. It was as if my soul was all that was left of me, and it had been poisoned by fear.

Then there was sound, and the lack of sensation was over.

Bolton's wailing startled me out of my stupor. It was much like the sounds he made in the night when he dreamt of war, except this was much more real. Terror was escaping his body through his lungs, and it was continuing to do so as I made my way cautiously back down the stairs. His cry was endless and unbroken by intake of breath. At the end of the staircase, I took a deep breath and peered around the corner to quench my curiosity.

Bolton was lying on his stomach, the upper half of his torso supported by his propped elbows. He was screaming into the fire, his pistol pointed into the flames.

I took a cautious step forward, no longer fearful. Bolton, the dunce, appeared to simply be having a flashback of the war. There was likely no ammunition to be found in the gun he held. I smirked at my own previous fear. The mindless fool before me could never be so insightful as to realize my disguised plan. His unending yell was agitating me, and I took up the candlestick that resided on a nearby table. I raised it above my head and grinned in anticipation of the act I was committing. The foolish and infuriating farmer would soon be just a carcass in the snow. The ecatasy that filled my mind distracted me for a moment, and as I was giddy over the murder at hand, Bolton twisted the pistol around in his hands, still yelling. I finally sighed with contentment at the situation, and took a last step toward my victim. The moment that my foot hit the floor a shot was fired and Bolton's cry abruptly ended. I stared at the body in astonishment, not quite comprehending the suicide I'd just witnessed.

When I understood what had happened, fury welled up inside me.

This undistinguished, small-minded, irrevocably uninteresting and absolutely assinine idiot had stolen the satisfaction that I had been anticipating. He had left me standing as a fool with a candlestick clasped tightly in one hand. With a loathsome shriek, the candlestick came down hard and was embedded in the back of Bolton's corpse. Again and again, down I sent it, thumping into the hot meat, sending bloody flesh spraying all over the parlor and into the fire. The scent of burning blood collided with my nose, and, as unpleasant as it was, I desired more. The battering ceased, and I calmly made my way over to the grand fireplace which Bolton affectionately kept fed. I watched the flames, letting the light blind me temporarily. I stared at them as they danced, like a tribe of Natives stomping around rhythmically.

Bolton hated the Natives.

With a smile, I grabbed the poker and thrust it into the small fire. I sent a flaming log hurling into Bolton's bloodied, disfigured face. The tribe danced merrily and even chanted with a series of pops and sizzles that overcame the heavy silence that had fallen in that parlor. They burned torches, which reeked like no other torch ever had. The ground beneath the tribe blackened and crumbled, so they spread, conquering new territory and scorching it until it too crumbled. The tribe continued to venture out, sending black clouds of odor and smoke to the ceiling of the parlor. I watched, and a satisfaction spread across my body as the fire spread across Bolton's.

Before I realized it, the small cremation became an inferno.

The black smoke forced its way into my lungs as the orange fire licked my skin and singed my hairs. The flames I found comforting in some strange way; they did not present a pain I was unwilling or unable to bear, but the smoke - the smoke was Bolton - his body - and it was inside of me - inside of me - suffocating me, poisoning my breath - my blood - my body - my BRAIN.

I stumbled through the house, which by now was ablaze and filled with a tribal chant so resounding that it was an unrelenting roar that seemed to echo in my head, bouncing off of my skull and ricocheting off of my brain in ways I would never before have considered possible. I reached the door and rammed into it until I was out of the house and away from the heat. I dove into the snow to supervise the spectacle that took place before me.

When the sun was peeking again over the horizon in search of its comrade, I was already on my way to Aunt Margaret. The clouds had all but exhausted their supply of winter flakes, and the horse was compliant as she had been at the beginning of our journey less than a week before. The house was gone, and the barn had been almost so when we absconded. With the light but steady snow, by noon there would be no indication that any settlement had been there, and Jeremiah Bolton would be but an unpleasant memory that ended in a dazzlingly beautiful array of sparks, smoke, and snow.