Aloysius no longer knows what warmth is. His body is as frigid as the snow that enshrouds him, his veins have long since frozen solid, and an icy mist seeps out of his purple lips. Yet he doesn’t feel cold, or anything for that matter. All his eyes see are the crosshairs of his scope, all he feels is his rifle, and all he hears is the distant crackling of bullets and thunder of exploding shells. The symphony of war and nature his only company. This suits him just fine though. Aloysius has always considered conversations as a daunting affair, and trees rarely talk, so he feels somewhat content in the forest. More so, he feels aware.
“Hello lieutenant. Welcome to another day in Hell.”
“Well, Hell must have frozen over then. If that's the case, the Tommies might have a chance to win this war.¨
“Ah it’s always a treat to hear such determination. The Fatherland could certainly use more of it.”
A bush rustles in his peripheral vision, perhaps 25 yards northwest. He snaps his rifle to the disturbance, shifting his prone body quickly but subtly. A survey of the bush reveals the culprit: a plump, gray rabbit. It’s ears are twitching, its small beady eyes darting back and forth. Aloysius contemplates shooting it. A mere pull of the trigger, less than a second, as quick as the Big Bang, because small moments, yes, they matter the most.
Aloysius, once again a child, is crouched next to his father. His scope is shaking as well as his shivering body. He feels dreadfully cold, yet he isn’t numb; the wind nips at his frozen fingers, the rifle is heavy in his frail arms, and an overbearing sense of dread festers in his gut. A rabbit is in his wavering crosshairs, as still as stone. Aloysius’s father crouches behind him, his massive hand clasped onto Aloysius’s shoulder. Idealy, it’s a gesture of comfort, of faith, but realistically it serves as a reminder, a warning. Aloysius doesn’t want to shoot the rabbit. It is innocent, simple, and stupid. These thoughts don’t matter though. The rabbit is dead in the next second.
On the battlefield, the rabbit hops off. Aloysius eases off the trigger with a sigh of disappointment.
“The front is a meat grinder as usual. I lost 20 men from my company just yesterday.”
“That´s a damn shame. What about that boy you mentioned the other day?”
Time has become irrelevant. Perhaps years have passed since Aloysius has been lying in the snow. Perhaps the war is already over? Evidently not, Aloysius realizes as the black figure of a soldier stumbles into view through his scope. The soldier is limping, a walking dead, running solely on survival instinct and fear. Droplets of blood follow the man as he trudges along, a crimson trail that exudes death. The order once again rang in Aloysius’s head: shoot all deserters on sight. The Lieutenant gave this task to Aloysius alone, a fact that still makes him feel ecstatic. This surely means that he is an invaluable soldier, better fit than his peers. He matters, he’s important… he is finally something. The man is German, alone, and a coward. He is just like Aloysius, despite one key contrast. Aloysius is truly alone in the fact that he can’t feel anything… anything at all but his cruel happiness. Aloysius fills his lungs with icy air, feels the smooth curvature of the trigger, and focuses on the lumbering black husk amidst a backdrop of white. He feels that the pristine portrait of nature through his scope could do without the ugly mass of black. In the next instant, Aloysius’s bullet smashes through the soldier’s heart. He wonders if the man felt cold.
“Oh, what was his name… no matter. That kid’s unstable, a time bomb. I’d rather have him explode out in the woods than in our trenches, so I ordered him to snipe deserters. Killing two birds with one stone really.”
“You’re always so efficient.”
“That’s all it takes.”
There is a great oak tree next to Aloysius. In fact, he had chosen this spot especially for the oak tree. It towered over the other lesser trees. To this tree, which has been alive for hundreds of years, humans are mere ants and their troubles meaningless. Aloysius feels honored to be in such close proximity yet shameful of shattering the tree’s silence even further than the war already has. Its view of the canopy formed by its brethren as well as the sheet of pure white beneath is now tainted by battered corpses clad in black. Aloysius feels guilty and moves to a different sniping position. He is unaware that his toes have attained a dark purple color.
It’s in this new position where all aspects of time melt, its substance poured into a soup--a single entity. There is no longer a past, present, or future. For now through his crosshairs, Aloysius sees his father and brother watching him. His father is clad in his favorite fur coat and black cap, his hunting outfit of choice. He stands next to his favorite son, Aloysius's older brother, Klaus, who now looks no more than ten years old. Klaus is equipped with the family Mauser and is eagerly scanning his surroundings. Klaus’s rifle wavers for a moment and then stops-aimed directly at Aloysius. Aloysius is at first dumbfounded, as those he despises have invaded his paradise. He can see their putrid smiles, their iron bond emanating between them while Aloysius is once again so distant. It makes his stomach churn, an urge to vomit and then a familiar wish to erase those smiles. He wants to see different expressions, expressions of pain and defeat. Thus, he trains his  crosshairs upon his father. His trigger finger is shaking with desire. One instant, eternal revenge. His isolation, his suffering, all fulfilled with a single bullet! He is about to fire when that acidic voice reaches his ears, that voice that has dissolved so much hope.
“Hey, Aloysius. Why are you laying in those bushes like a fool. Be a good boy and stand up will you,” booms his father.
Aloysius’s sense of rebellion is shattered. He is both a child and an adult, an abomination. He stands up.
“Ah, good. Now, stand still. Klaus needs to practice his shooting. We would both be grateful for your help.”
Aloysius is paralyzed. Frozen tears seep from his eyes. He feels too much, far too much. Especially, he feels cold.
A final shot rings out.