Standing tall, he stares up at the gray clouds glaring down at him, accusatory and judgmental. Crystal tears fall from his dark lashes. His muddy brown scarf sways in the strong gusts of wind which are trying so hard to cause him to lose his balance.

"I'm sorry." he sniffs, "I-I didn't mean to."

But he knows forgiveness will not be found. Dried crimson clings to the rusted metal pipe clenched tightly in his fist, tears of fresh blood dropping to the snow covered round, tainting the sparkling substance. A pool of red draws around him as he repeats his plea.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"

The cold air stays silent. He stares at the blazing sun, ignoring the splotches in his vision and the dull throb in his once bright, happy eyes which now only carry anger and sadness. A growl emits from his throat, turning to an agonized wail as his grip loosens, causing the weapon to plummet to the plush ground. He drops to his knees, grabbing his head and sobbing, wanting this to end. Wanting all of this to end.

His life in the world. This world so cold. It wasn't meant to be. He'll end it. This mistake also known as his existence. But he is stopped by those three words he has been longing to hear. He looks up as the voice repeats:

"You are forgiven."