Creation

It had been two weeks since he had first seen the young man who now lay on the snow covered ground in agony. It hadn't been difficult to gain his trust; it was never difficult to get any of them to trust him. Now the course of this gullible boy's life depended entirely on his own moods and whims. That thought caused the sadistic lips to curl in a slight smirk.

He saw himself as a deity of life and death who could end suffering or end a life with a single action. Without empathy, pity, remorse or regret. He smiled to himself as he watched the poor creature gasp before exhaling his last breath.

"Oh, that was far quicker than I expected. They usually last longer," he lamented, "well, at least I have time for a coffee before work now. You're lucky that you can't feel how cold it is out here!"

The man wiped his blood-covered gloved hands on delicate white ice and his victim's equally pale visage. Taking a moment to admire his own artistry, he knew that the young man should thank him and no doubt would were he able. Through his work, this insignificant lump of clay had become something beautiful; his creation.

"Yes," the self-satisfied purpetrator mused, "compared to you, I  am a god indeed."