Rachel Davis

Am I a bad person, for liking a man in a uniform, even though I cringe at the thought of the material giving way to daggers and silver bullets? I feel like I am. My gut. The tree bark watches as this boy— just a boy, not yet a man, like every classic love song— stands cold in the snow. His boots have worn through the toe and his toes have worn through the boots. He slices the snow, dragging a blade behind him. Now, thir't, four't, fifth, six't, lift your rifle. Hold it at right shoulder. Walk to your spot by the snow that has melted and frozen over. Stand on the rocks and look at your reflection. You will die here. You will be shot in eight counts. You will fall, thinking of the river at home instead of yourself. Hold your rifle at right shoulder. Five, six, seven, eight—