Bittersweet

The boy at last opened his eyes. The ice stung him, the blood flowing so freely down his parting lips burned him. He spat silently, watching the crimson bleed into the white of the endless snow. He saw nothing. He felt nothing. He wondered if he would die. What a sweet thought: he would die and be gone. He would be one with the snow once more. And his eyes would be mere drops of vivid vermilion, fading, fading.