She dies in my arms. The light is no longer in her eyes, and her chest is no longer moving. My fingers trace her ears until I reach her earrings. I pin them between the tips of my fingers and yank quickly. Then I slip the earrings into my pocket and let her slip to the ground. I push with my feet and let myself float away, up into the air.
Her body becomes fully visible to me. It lies between two large oak trees, on top of the crimson snow. From above it all looks like painting, like something a great man of the renaissance period would paint. There’s an odd beauty to it. I stop for a moment and take it all in. I feel I will never see such a beautiful sight again in my life. The wind is cool, and it brushes my hair into my eyes. I brush it back and begin floating back up until I reach a good altitude. Then I turn over and close my eyes allowing myself to be carried away by the wind, back home.

I wake up in the early morning somewhere just out of Toronto. I’m almost there. I remove my diary from my pocket and begin writing of the previous night. After merely a single paragraph I realize I can’t remember the night very well. The only clear memory I have is setting her down, and floating away. Watching her in the snow, dead. I write this down and roll back over to sleep again. This lack of memory doesn’t worry me very much. While I usually have photographic memory, it isn’t an uncommon accurance for me to simply forget a day, or even a week. Long ago I decided this was because my memory was becoming full. A person’s head can only hold so much.
I close my eyes once again and let myself continue on.

I wake up again just a mile or so from my home. I watch as the brown grass floats along below me, the large pine trees passing by just ten feet below me.
I reach out and once again attempt to remember the night before. Unfortunately it is just as useless as before.
Then I see my home. I begin to lower myself until I touch down on the soft snowy hillock. I move my feet around feeling the earth. Everytime I touch the ground again after a trip I miss it, like one misses a second cousin you see once a year.
I walk down the slope and open the door to my home. The door is a slab of wood about five feet square placed over the entrance. After stepping into the room I slide it back into place. My home is dark, and cool. It is just one room, one large circular room. There are only two pieces of furniture in the room, off two the right side a large wardrobe filled with my diaries of the previous years, and in the center of the room a small ice table. On the table sits two pieces of paper. One is an old letter from my parents in a language I no longer understand, the other a pencil drawing of me. The drawing is by the girl. I remember sitting in this room together. She’d been crying after I showed her where I lived. She was from a town south of here the name of which I can’t remember.
After I tried to explain everything to her she drew me thr picture. On the other side of the paper is the drawing I then drew of her, like a stick figure. Nothing in comparison to the beautiful image she had drawn.
I move to the very back of the room and curl up against the wall. I think of the color in her face, and her green eyes, the tone in her voice, an odd mix of sultry and raspy, with a slight Canadian accent.
I hear the snow begin falling again. I roll onto my back and stare up at the ceiling of the room. It reflects the entire room perfectly clearly. I slip my hand in my pocket and remove the two earrings. I glance at them, two small diamonds. I unclip them and move them up to my ears. I swiftly pierce them into my ear lobs. I clip them and watch the blood begin to pool around my head. Soon I have something of a miniature halo. I close my eyes and think of her again, her face as she drew the picture, concentrating and laughing at once; so beautiful. Then I fall asleep again.