Hidden Under Snow

I can no longer feel my hands, but I can't stop. Black fingertips dive deep into the sea of white. I need to keep going. To find answers. The truth.

If the blood vessels in my fingers weren't frozen, the torn flesh would streak the snow red. Wouldn't it?

If I were made of flesh, blood, and bone, I would be too numb to feel pain, too exposed to the cold. Wouldn't I?

My hands strike something solid beneath the snow. I have no finesse, no precision. I scrape and shove snow aside to find a frozen face.

My own.