The pure white snow, freshly fallen, gleams under the moonlight. And the blood of the slain paints it red. It is like wine, thick and decadent. It spreads like desire, much like the desire to kill. What was once pure is now corrupted, its innocence defiled, lost because once something is dead, there is no going back. There is no resurrection for what has been lost. Red on white. Crimson on ivory. It’s the scene of a crime. No, not a crime, it’s the scene of a sin.
