The wind ripped through the mountain, a rage of storm that wasn’t unusual for here. There had been a snowstorm a few hours earlier and it threatened us with its cold blasts again. I had to get this body moved. I couldn’t let anyone see me. Hopefully if when the sun melted the snow; they’d just assume that it was the cold that got to them. No one was going to come looking for them. I knew that. I picked my victims well. Hauling 200lbs of deadweight up the mountain in this storm hadn’t been part of the plan. It hadn’t been forecasted. But as anything else in the world the weather really wasn’t predictable. So I continued to carry this body up the mountain side. Tired, hungry and honestly fed up. Sometimes I wondered why I did this; and why I bothered at all. But; someone had to take the trash out of the world. I noticed my snow prints being left in the snow.. dead mans prints. That’s what they were called round these parts. Because no one with sense would come up the mountain in the snow. If the cold didn’t kill you; an avalanche might. Which why it made the perfect dumping ground for my latest victim. They had been a sleazy rapist that had gotten away with it. So you don’t need to feel bad for the fact they’re dead. My thoughts continued to swirl like the snow clouds that loomed overhead whilst the wind continued to punish me for my heinous deeds. I accepted that punishment; I just wish it could have waited until after I’d gotten rid of the body. I made it. After 6 gruelling hours I made it to my own personal graveyard. I dropped the body without much care and made it look like a fall. The broken leg would attest to that. It was cold. Calculated and perfectly planned out. They were going to be snowed under til spring. I took a sharp intake of breath and instantly regretted it as the cold hit my teeth like tiny daggers and warned me that if I didn’t get moving I’d be stuck up here with the rest of them. 5 a year. That’s all I did. 5. Each year for 10 years. It’s not honest or good work; but it helps resolve the world a little bit at a time. Too much and I’d become attention; too little and it wasn’t worth it. He had been victim number 3.