A fierce blizzard tore across the landscape as an injured white-haired boy, who looked no more than twelve, struggled forward against the cold. As he marched through the endless white snow, he held a large cloth that was as big as his own torso.
In it held a child with frost forming in his face, his eyes nearly shut but not completely closed. Blood dripped down onto the child's face before turning into a deep red icicle.
The boy was bleeding from his head; he didn't hate it, for it was the only source of warmth he could find in the biting cold.
He was no different from being naked with the clothing he had, which was torn, thin, and unreliable. It was a surprise that he was even able to stand properly this long. By now, most children would've passed out.
Yet he persevered; each footprint he left meant he was leaving clues for people to find and help them. Of course, he knew otherwise, the heavy snow would have already filled his footprints long ago.
He decided that the only way to survive and endure this cruel punishment from nature was to fool himself into believing that people were going to save them. It was pitiful, pathetic, and humiliating for him, but what choice does he have?
Everything was in pain, head to toe, except for some parts that were numbed by the frostbite that the blizzard had gifted him. Really, the only thing that's keeping him from embracing his own death is this will he marked himself with.
Shelter was the only thing he needed to find, even trees were enough as long as they delayed their demise.
As he took another step, he felt a fabric of his own skin getting torn. He let out a painful groan. His own arms almost released the child from his grasp, but he held on.
He could've stumbled, and yet he didn't; he gazed on the child's face, taking careful breaths until the pain was finally numbed by cold. He continued with his bloodshot eyes, only focused forward.
Though the pain was gone, it still left his body tattered. His center of balance was laughable to say the least, and he knew it. If anyone saw his silhouette, they'd mistake him for a monster.
Blood seeped from the open wound. By now, the warmth of his own blood no longer gave him the comfort it had the rest of the journey. His whole body was now covered in frostbite.
Finally, his legs gave out, he was immobile, and he didn't think much of it since his thighs were still able to move, at least... he thought it did.
His whole body gave up, but in spite of that, his arms were still holding on to the child. His upper body fell down as well; he couldn't feel it, but he knew he landed on sharp stones.
Blood scattered around the snow, absorbing his vitality, giving a sad color to the snow. With every ounce of strength he had left, he moved his hand and gripped the ground.
Pulling on it, forcing himself to move forward. It was futile—the only thing he achieved from that was his arm doing a weird shape, which probably twisted his joint.
'So, this is the end?'
He turned to look at the child, guilt pressing heavily on his chest. He saw his own reflection in his green eyes. He saw a kid who was abandoned by everyone and everything. He saw what he hated the most.
He leaned his head to cover the child's face, which was the only thing left he could do for him.
Before he shut his eyes, he felt vibrations on the snow. Then he heard muffled thuds fading in.
Footsteps crunched through the snow. A silhouette towered over both of them with his shadow. He wore a dark blue coat with an umbrella in his hand that shielded them both from the snow.
He couldn't see the man's face—just darkness before his eyes finally shut.