Mine and Mine Alone

The snow comes quickly in this city. It blows in, over the mountains, and sits in the valley while we all wait for the sun to pardon us. We've all been cruel and we've all walked along the park. It's the nature of this place. I used to look around, on a snowy day like this, and try to figure out how all these people find the time to enjoy it. I'm sure some do: the women, the children, maybe even someone's father. Sometimes, when I'm just wandering, I'll see whole families in the park just playing with the snow. It calms me, oddly. There's something tranquil, and serene, about it that I refuse to question. I would never want to ruin it for myself. Sometimes the entire family doesn't make it out, though. I can always tell when people are missing from the picture, because the ones that are there act as if the others are too. But they often aren't. 

A man stood in the middle of a snow-blanketed field in the park. He wasn't wearing much, but he seemed to be alright. His eyes were fixed on the glimmer that shot off the dusting and his hands were settled in his pockets. He looked reposed; at ease. He only glanced up at me once and, with that, pulled a gun from his pocket. He blew his head off, ruining the untouched snow.