The Weight of White

The duffel bag snagged on a frozen root, jerking Leo forward, his shoulder screaming. He bit down on a ragged breath, a puff of white fog blooming then vanishing into the frigid air. The snow, heavy and relentless, swallowed every sound. His own boots, usually a loud crunch on cold nights, were muffled, a soft shush against the deepening blanket. It was a silence so profound it felt like a pressure, pushing in on his skull, making his ears ring.

He dragged the weight, a dead man wrapped in heavy canvas, across the pristine white, leaving a dark, gouged trail. Every muscle in his back screamed. His fingers, numb despite the cheap gloves, were locked in a death grip on the duffel’s worn strap. Overhead, the world was just dark shapes of pines, their branches laden, occasionally sighing under the fresh burden, releasing a soft plume of white. No wind. Just the steady, hushed fall, a curtain drawing over everything he was trying to hide.

It hadn't been supposed to go like this. Ever. Just a warning. A little muscle, you know? He'd gone to Victor’s place, just like they’d told him. Victor, the weasel, owed too much, talked too much. But Victor, he’d pulled a knife. A rusty switchblade. Leo had reacted, a blur of instinct and adrenaline, the kind of raw animal fear that just takes over. A push, a shove, a thud against the kitchen counter. Then the quiet. A different kind of quiet. Not the snow, but the sudden, horrifying absence of breath, of struggle.

He’d panicked. Of course, he’d panicked. The blood, a shocking splash on the linoleum. The wide, unseeing eyes. He couldn't call anyone. Couldn't leave him there. This was his mess, his alone. Hours, maybe days, later, he was out here, a mile off the old highway, slogging through virgin snow to an abandoned quarry. A place so forgotten, even the scavengers gave it a wide berth. The only witness was the relentless, falling snow, stacking up, erasing, covering.

The cold bit into his lungs with every ragged inhale. He felt it, a burning deep in his chest. His breath hitched, a desperate sound against the overwhelming quiet. He risked a glance over his shoulder. The tracks stretched back, stark and clear, a testament to his horrible passage. He had to keep moving. Had to get this done. The snow was his friend and his enemy tonight. It covered, but it also told a story. Every single step. Every drag. He imagined headlights, far off, slicing through the woods. Imagined a siren, a distant wail that no amount of snow could muffle.

Finally, the edge. The ground sloped sharply down into the black maw of the quarry. He knelt, scraping away the fresh snow with his numb hands, revealing the hard, slick ice beneath. He cut the ropes he’d used to secure the duffel, his movements clumsy, hurried. With one final, desperate heave, he pushed. The bag slid, slowly at first, then picked up speed, a dark blur against the white, gathering momentum, tumbling down into the abyss. He heard the faint splash, almost imperceptible, swallowed immediately by the thick, heavy silence. The water, half-frozen, would be deeper than hell. Colder than death.

He stood there for a long moment, chest heaving, his body a trembling wreck. The snow continued its gentle descent, already blurring the edges of the tracks he'd made, softening the harsh lines of the quarry's rim. He turned, slowly, his legs stiff, and started back the way he came, his boots now lighter, though the weight on his soul felt heavier than ever. The flakes landed on his eyelashes, melting, cold pinpricks. The world was utterly still, utterly white. And the only sound was the thump of his own heart, a frantic drum in the absolute quiet.