AFTER
Since childhood, he supposed, he was taciturn, grumpy. Never smiling, never laughing. He thrived on being alone, which worked out fine considering that any and all attention went to one of his ten other siblings, in particular the sickly Saoirse.
Saoirse is the one who comes to his mind while he lays on the cold snow, wet seeping into his pants, his back with the coat ripped away, and his head staining the white of both his hair and the snow to a red-pink colour. Saoirse, with the same white hair as his own, and the same blue eyes, and the same pale skin, with the same birthmark on the palm of their hands.
What would she think of him now?
Dying, Oliver laughs.
