It’s the middle of November and I’m trudging through three feet of snow because, much to my dismay, bodies don’t just bury themselves.

With blood drenched hands I pull the small plastic sled behind me, piled with a crumpled former colleague.

I stop, doubling over, panting in the chilly air.

Sweat already soaking my forehead and socks.

I look over my shoulder at the deadweight of arms, legs and bloody clothes on the sled.

Two miles done, four to go. I let out a displeased groan. My legs burning as I started my dismal march.

It was an accident, at least that’s what I keep telling myself. It was just a slip of the wrist, he caught me off guard. Same with the knife buried in his stomach. Although I doubt anyone will miss him, he was a royal ass.

It made me miss it though, that nasty habit of mine. That compulsion that made my fingers itch, made my nostrils flare and my heart race.

His now dried blood on my hands felt rejuvenating, his breathless gasp as I buried my knife into his guts ringing in my ears, over and over.

I shuttered, not from the cold, but from the familiar euphoric sensation that ran up my spine.

Maybe it’s time to come out of retirement.

Get some new hunting grounds, find some misplaced souls.

Lost to my thinking, I step on a patch of ice under the snow, sending me crashing to the ground. Sprawled out in the snow drenched in sweat and legs burning, I remember why I stopped.