The muffled echo of snow crunching beneath his boots sounds all the more audible, within the confines of the early morning hours. Absent of humans and various other forms of life, the dreary nature of this finally resting place has never seemed more pronounced than it does now, under this frozen cloak of darkness. Much like the mythical vampire, he retreats to this sanctuary before the rising of the dawn. This time, never to leave again.
Reaching his destination, he falls onto his scraped, bloody knees. All spent but for a single bullet, he tosses the revolver aside into the blanket of pristine snow, and slumps his bullet-riddled torso against her headstone. He cradles himself against the cold, having dispensed with the shreded remnants of his leather jacket and spandex shirt long ago after the battle. Watching his moist breath collide with the cool, crisp air, his chest heaves with the exhaustion of a man who has ran a marathon. In his own way he has, and he has finally arrived at the finish line.
The crow flying overhead momentarily breaks the silence. Catching a glimpse of it, a temporary smile breaks across his khol-painted lips, as the irony is not lost on him. In that, what brought him back into the land of the living, will also carry him back into the realm of the dead. Coughing up a clot of congealed blood, as the crow stands perched on a barren tree branch starring down at him, he manages to mutter through it, " Don't worry. I always knew this wasn't a one-way trip.". The resulting eulogy sends a violent torrent of filth, out onto his pale, naked flesh.
Through the crimson crust of his matter hair, he see the gun.
Reaching for it, the cold temperature of the colbalt steel sends shivers though his body. Spinning the chamber, the one bullet still remains. Trembling, the barrel is raised to his temple, as his gaze locks with that of the crow. "I'm coming home, Shelly." he says.
A bang. A flash.
And suddenly there is nothing.
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