I hunch over my desk, slowly contemplating, chewing the inside of my upper lip. Suddenly, blood fills my mouth, a bitter, coppery taste. I suck the tip of my index finger, and it comes out a bright, fake red. I wipe it on my jeans and go back to the quiz, sucking on the torn skin in my mouth.
Outside, snow falls and melts on the nape of my neck, slithering down my back, making me shiver. I pull the collar of my hood up. My steps are slow and measured, concentrating on not falling, wishing I had worn boots. There's nobody else outside. The snow falls absolutely silently. It fills me and surrounds me, quietly making everything ok, and I can't quite describe how that feels.
I suck on my lip, taking a mouthful of blood, and turn to spit it in the snow. I expect it to splatter, an angry red mark on white, but the snow is too delicate, too fluffy, and caves quickly around it. There's just a hole there now, and it fills up quickly, making everything ok.
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