Daniel stood atop the hill, pondering for awhile his own mortality. In his hand was a pistol, grown icy in the crisp morning air, the dark grey metal polished to a sheen. His finger brushed against the trigger, and for the briefest of moments he considered putting the barrel in his mouth and squeezing. The moment passed, and he started down the hill, cutting a dark trail through the dewy, knee-high grass. Before long, Daniel's shins were soaked, his trousers clinging to his legs. His toes squished and squelched uncomfortably in his boots. Shuddering, he pressed on, a small cabin materializing in the early morning mist. As soon as he saw it, he thought of her.
The door flew open from the force of his kick. She was at the stove, making breakfast. Daniel pulled the trigger, ripping a dark red hole in her gut. He turned on his heel, towards the bedroom, where her husband could be heard scrambling frantically for his shotgun. Daniel was faster, though. He sent the man's brains out the back of his head. He pondered the corpse before pumping the rest of his bullets into it. Satisfied, he turned to leave, only to find her wriggling about on the floor, weakly clutching her hemorrhaging stomach. Daniel squatted down the her level and watched as she clawed towards him, trying desperately to vocalize something, likely a cry for help. He ground his teeth together and stood, leaving the cabin and trekking back up the hill. He turned to give the small structure one last look. She deserved better than to die like that, he mused, before turning and walking down the opposite side of the hill and away from the cabin, and away from her.