COLD

His digits were cold, or if they weren't cold, he couldn't feel to tell the difference. The white in his eyes reflected on the landscape leaving everything in his field of vision glossed over and empty. A soul of someone in his past would only whistle and scream, rising and falling with the shades of white in front of him.
He knew the men behind him and he knew what lay ahead. Either way there wasn't a good chance of living. He figured that with the amount of snow falling and the wind blowing across the plain they might miss his tracks, but even if he returned to the road they would be on it, somewhere, and chances were any other vehicles crossing the country would have stopped back in Sheridan for the night. On the other hand, he knew that both his ears were frostbit, and it wouldn't be long before his energy would start to drain.
The snow was accumulating fast. It was past his boots now and his pace was beginning to slow. The repetition of breath from his body reminded him of why he was running, why he thought he deserved to survive and start fresh somewhere else with someone else. He never meant for her to take him this far, to push him over and over again along the boundaries of what was real, and into an infinite, living circle of ideas whose bodies danced in front of his eyes and whose voices told him the answers to what he would interpret as the wonders of life, and he regretted the first time he saw her...