They cut off his hands in that first flush of morning snow. He watched with curiosity, as the dark crimson, oozed down the table leg, just missing the anaethetist’s boot. It settled amongst the thick cut of white; wasted. It began to snow again. His breath sucked in the acoustic silence. It chilled his teeth and cut into the back of his throat, making him gasp. Wanting to cup his hands to his mouth to exhale some warmth, he tried to move his arms, but a guard forced them back to the table. His old t-shirt now, newly stained, peeling and starting to freeze, gripped his scrawny bones, a new, tougher skin growing fast. As he looked ahead, he could see the self-righteous dance of the guards, swords poised, and then recalled, they had never been his hands to start with; they had always belonged to someone he had never met.