A Silent Hill

White fluff cascaded along the muddy plain. Moist dirt had overtaken the greenery in the previous harsh rain. A silent hill, a green hill, a white hill.

There was a village nearby, miniature in number, massive in might. Without haste eerie silence hath made its stay in the night. A silent village, a tiny village, a white village.

Despite its silence- bodies lay still in the homes, souls did not. Streets remained empty, not a response to the storm- but to a man’s evil plot. Silent streets, empty streets, red streets.

The perpetrator in question lay rigid in the snow. He dared stay in the village despite being its biggest foe. Hath he cold hands, guilty hands, red hands.

The massacre ironically befell in the past rain. Not one soul survivor in the village, the snow’s disgraceful stain. A tragic event, a clamorous event, an event full of melancholy.

The storm passes, the melancholy with it. Justice can only hope to be served in the morrow. The seasons still change, birds still sing, the earth still spins, gone is the over-worn sorrow. An ever changing earth, a forever forthcoming tomorrow.

A silent hill indifferent to its people buried beneath it.