It’s scaring me. Every night it snows here. The wind always stirs the snow in ways that it looks human. Faces, guns, knives, sometimes it even turns red. I seem to be the only one that can see this. Even typing this I can see my mother’s eyes staring at me through the snow. Through the window the lonely streetlamp casts the light on the snow in way that it glows with evil. The curtains do little against the glow. My apartment isn’t high up, only on the second floor, but I still see it all clearly. Tonight the snow fall looks like little drops of blood. It looks absolutely horrifying, all the different shades of red painting against the pale blues and greys of the other buildings. Even the sky is dark red with clouds that seem too heavy. The sound is even worse. Every drop sounds like an uncooked steak falling against a marble surface. The flimsy curtains do little to drown out the sounds of blood splattering against the cracks of an unkempt sidewalk. I’m about to go to bed when I see it. A person. A young man, who looks to be the same age as me. He’s walking down the sidewalk, coat wet with blood. Suddenly he trips on something and falls head first into a puddle. In an instant I’m by his side, checking for a pulse. Nothing. I’m patting my pockets searching for my phone, when the boy is holding me by the collar. His face is covered in blood and his left eye is bruised, next to his eye I can see a deep wound with something spilling out. His skull looks deformed and blood is spilling out his mouth and dripping down his chest. Then I recognize him. It’s my own brother. I try to speak to him, to say his name, but nothing comes out. He hits me in the eye. Hard. He then rasps out in a pained voice. “Help me, Miles.”
Then I wake up. It was a dream. The snow is still falling, as red as ever. Then my right eye starts hurting. Bad. I walk to the small bathroom and take a look at the mirror. A bruise on my left eye, almost identical to the one my brother had. Was it a dream if I have a bruise now on my face? Then my phone starts ringing in the other room. I pick it up. It’s my mother. The last time she called was when dad died from a heart attack. “Miles, its Mummy. Trevor was killed in a street-fight.” Unable to say anything, I hang up. How? How was any of this possible? I sit on the bed in silence, for a long time. The sun starts to rise from the horizon. The snow slowly fades out of existence. That was it. I’m going to move and finally start college. Nineteen is not too late for college. So, tomorrow I fly to Colorado and start college. Wish me luck.