The Guilt of the Human Condition

"Lewis... Just do what you have to. You hear me?"

It doesn't matter how many times those words echo in his head or how hard he tries to focus on the crackle of the fire his shaking hands are hovering over. Lewis can still hear it.

The rattle of James's last breath.

The sharp snap and pop of bones breaking that the thick and heavy snow couldn't muffle enough and resonated like the crack of gunfire.

The sawing through thighs and biceps with a blunt pocketknife that sounded far too similar to the tearing of fabric.

The squelch of the blood-soaked snow Lewis tried to cover with more of the freshly fallen flakes - a fruitless venture as the heaps he piled on top simply turned a deep brown.

Lewis's eyes dart over to the makeshift headstone to his right. Two sticks form a cross in front of a messy mound of stained snow. He takes a deep breath, hoping to fill his nostrils with the smell of the campfire burning in front of him as it cooks his likely final meal.

But he can still smell the rot.

The snow falling heavier and heavier around him isn't enough to mute the sound of Lewis's stomach crying out. He takes a nibble of James's right arm. Something pops, and liquid drips down Lewis's chin.

He wipes at it with the back of his hand.

A fresh smear of bright red covers the brown stains that the snow can't wash away.