There is blood on her hands.

She knows this.

There is blood on her hands. She wonders, for a moment, where the blood came from.

There is blood on her hands. And it is coming from a gash on her arm that is too long and too deep and....It was an accident, she thinks.

There is blood. She can not think beyond that.

And she on her knees now, surrounded by white softness.

It is like snow, she thinks.

She does not think It is summer, so this can not be snow.

Instead, she thinks, I am cold. and There is snow.

Now the blood is dripping down off of her hands.

But there is still blood on her hands.

The blood is dripping, tripping, falling down.

To land on the soft whiteness.

Blood on snow.

Blood on her hands.


There is no more blood on her hands.But there is peace. And maybe it wasn't such an accident after all.

She is lying down now in the softness, which is not so white anymore because of...


Now that she is lying down, she can see a light. Faint and flickering.

It looks like her ceiling lamp.

But that is silly, of course.

Because she is lying in the not-white snow, so she can not be in her room.

Perhaps it is the sunrise. She thought.

And so she is lying on her back in the snow, which is no longer white or cold, watching the sunrise.

And there is no blood on her hands.