I'm running. My breaths span out in front of me in great clouds of fog. My chest heaves, and my lungs burn; I keep running. My feet pound on the frozen earth beneath me. I look up at the trees running along the path. The sun is just about to set, the light from the last dying rays dance along the tops of the trees, turning them to fire. I run faster.

   I am filled with an uncontrollable fury that thrashes inside me, begging to be let out. I scream. My voice fills the air around me with its piercing echo. I finally stop running, unable to continue. But my anger does not dissipate. It rages on inside me like a driving storm. In contrast to the seething inferno inside, the world surrounding me is coated in a thick layer of snow, turning everything to ice.

   I watch my panting breaths form in the air in front of me, and I scream again. I scream until my throat is sore, knowing no one will hear me. Eventually, I stop that too.

   I know what will help. I am reluctant though. But it is too much. Everything is too much. The monster within in me claws at my insides, growling and spitting, demanding to be let out.

   My resolve breaks, and I rip the cool metal object out of my pocket. It is perfect, not so much as a scratch. I couldn't let something so important be harmed. The object I hold in my hands, a small silver switchblade.

   I fling my jacket from my shoulders despite the ice that immediately starts creeping into my bones. I hold the knife in my right hand, positioned over the snowy pale skin of my left forearm, already littered with scars. Some old and faint, some new and fresh. My hands shake violently, but I can't tell if it's from the cold, or the raging flames within. Maybe it's both.

   The blade slashes over my wrist, and crimson explodes across my skin, spilling onto the white ground. The disparity of colours almost shocks me with its beauty. A swirl of bright red surrounded by a world of ice and frost. I relish in the pain it brings; in the art I've created. I slash across my wrist again and again. The warm scarlet pouring down my arm quickly cools as it hits the frozen earth. This angers me more. The clawing, thrashing animal inside me is not satisfied. It howls for more.

   Looking down at my left arm, I realize I can no longer see the the skin underneath, it is a glove of the deepest ruby.

   I pass the knife to my left hand, and it almost slips out of my hand, falling into the snow, but I clutch it tighter, determined. I raise the knife, ready to satiate the monster. It cries its approval. I tear the blade over my wrist once more. I do it over and over until I start to weaken. I stare down at the ground beneath me. It is coated in more blood than I have ever seen in my life. I smell the sharp, metallic scent of copper.

   I slash the knife across my arm one more time before it becomes too heavy for me to hold, or I become too weak to hold it. My crimson fingers slacken, and the blade falls into the snow somewhere. I don't see where.

   I am sitting, kneeled in the snow. I don't remember deciding to do that; if I even decided at all.

   My eyelids start to get heavy, and I struggle to keep them open. My whole body feels sluggish and slow. I register that I am dying, and the beast purrs, finally content.

  At some point, the raging storm within me disappeared, and all that remains is deep exhaustion. I don't even feel the cold anymore. In contrast, a slow steady warmth starts spreading though my body.

   Slowly, I lay down in the blood-soaked snow. I shift, looking up at the sky. The sun has set, taking the fire that danced along the tree tops. Taking the inferno.