Dead of Winter

Running through the snow is like trying to run in a nightmare, where every movement is slow, sluggish.

There’s a twinge of discomfort in the back of my mind.
The twinge is louder, unignorable, like a rubber band snapping over and over in my mind.

A strange atmosphere has fallen over us. There’s shock, and horror, and anger, and betrayal. But there’s also a sense of being cleansed. As though we’ve been queasy for days, and we’ve finally thrown up the sickness from our stomachs.