Author's Note This story unfolds through selected moments in the characters' lives.Each chapter captures a significant fragment of their shared history, not a continuous timeline.
A huge man. Harold Olafson, forty-four years old. He has escaped from a hospital.
He wanders alone through the darkness and the cold, wearing nothing but a torn gown. His breathing is heavy, his eyes empty, and he staggers forward, struggling to remain on his feet. At last, he collapses.
Time passes. The snow falls thicker and thicker, slowly covering his body until only a hand remains visible, dangling out of the white.
Every now and then, someone stops. Only to stub out a cigarette on what looks like a large pile of freshly shoveled snow.
Two passersby approach, curious but cautious. Their footsteps crunch on the snow, and one of them leans slightly forward, looking more closely.
"Is he… is he breathing?" one whispers, his voice full of uncertainty.
"I don't know… wait—" the other replies, eyes fixed on the motionless body.
"Christ… he's frozen."
With effort, they roll him over. The gown rips completely. One of them presses hard on his chest, trying to resuscitate him.
The man coughs. He opens his eyes and looks around.
And then, suddenly, he moves. Too fast, too strong. One of the men doesn't have time to react before Harold grabs him by the throat, eyes locked on his own. A sharp, chilling sound cuts through the air.
Harold stands up, still holding the rescuer's body in his massive hands. He lifts him effortlessly, then finally lets him drop, motionless and dead, onto the snow.
"Hey—what the fuck are you doing?!"
The unfortunate man freezes, terror locking his legs in place.
Harold approaches, raises his arm, grabs the other man with one hand, clamps his head, and presses down on the skull with incredible force.
"Aaaahhh! No! Stop! Christ… Jesus Christ, it hurts!"
Crack.
Then silence.