Deep beneath the cover of another perfect wonder
Where it's so white as snow
Privately divided by a world so undecided
And there's nowhere to go

- Red Hot Chili Peppers, "Snow"


It was lava red and measured half the length of my hand. This was a predator worst known for the hooked stinger at the end of its partial question mark tail, and now it clung to my bed sheets with armored pincers.

With a panicked swipe of my arm, the scorpion flew from my mattress with a sound like seashells cracking. As it made contact with the carpet, its armor turned neon yellow. Like a fencer, stiff and poised, the scorpion brandished its pincers and stinger and rushed for my bed. Leaping off the mattress, I darted and twisted in zigzags to avoid its toxic sting, then turned the chase upon it with a vengeful grace; now the creature fled from me, knowing I intended its doom. We danced like this for what seemed like forever. When I finally smashed it dead with my fist, its sticky insides oozing from beneath a crushed skeleton, my heart was beating too fast.

I looked up into the eyes of a woman who suddenly appeared; she almost looked like me, but her features were skewed. The longer, darker hair, the thinner nose, the disappointment in her eyes, as if she'd wished I'd been stung. She gazed down at the yellow death on my hands, turned on her heel, and vanished.

The dream made me sweat. My bones and muscles ached as if I'd been running.

I woke up again to Hwoarang's gaze hovering over me like a moth. He knew better than to ask what was wrong. All he had to do was watch me sleep to learn the truth.


Sun in Capricorn, ascendant in Scorpio. At least, that's what the astrology section in some magazine said. Hwoarang, ever the helpful bastard, could only offer the usual smirks and snickers.

"Don't tell me you believe in that shit," he jibed.

"You're a Leo, aren't you."

"Aries, actually. Don't you forget that."

"I thought you didn't care about that stuff."

"I don't, but I also don't let people think I'm something I'm not."

"And what do you know about what I think?"

"I don't know. That's the problem."

I smiled, setting the magazine back onto the shelf; at least he was honest. I always found it amusing when people tried to figure me out. It's not like I was mysterious on purpose, or that I was anything special. People should stop trying to answer questions they didn't know how to ask.

"It's silly though," I sighed. "Being earth and water at the same time."

"Well, so far you're pulling it off. I like you all muddy and confused."

"You sure know how to make a girl feel special."

Hwoarang laughed, nudging my arm to cheer me up.

"It might be kinda cool to be a contradiction," he said. "Me, I'm just fire. I just light things up and watch them explode."

He'd forgotten that fire was also life. Fire bled warmth and devoured the cold, urging spring even in the deepest of winter sleeps. Whether I liked it or not, his presence comforted me, if not for the slashing reds in that look-at-me hair, then for the sheer life he emanated whenever he spoke. Some people lived like they're dead, but the Korean man was born with a flame in his chest, which seemed only to burn brighter with every hardship he encountered. Like me, he was a survivor, but he didn't need two faces to know how to live; he was as crude and genuine as anyone could get. He knew when to burn bad things into ashes, where I allowed them to smolder.

Maybe that's why I defended him so fiercely that night when we were cornered in an empty bathroom. The three men had guns and jagged smiles, and I knew this wasn't the first time they'd tried to rob an unwary traveler come by to relieve themselves.

"Julia stop!" Hwoarang screamed, but it was like I would not, could not, listen. After we disarmed them, our attackers held their hands up in surrender and flopped onto the ground belly up like a low-ranked wolf—but I couldn't stop. I wanted to hear them beg and cry, watch them bleed and bruise and break. I wanted to see that contrast of red on white tiled floor, of spilled life and ammonia. Only then could I be sure.

Was it true that some male soldiers obtained erections when they were killing people on the battlefield? It was almost like that. A surge of electricity shot through my spine, carrying with it that fleeting ecstasy bred of merciless power. If these men were allowed to ever stand up and breathe again, they'd repeat the same atrocities. She couldn't risk that. Besides, the endorphin rush was always nice.

"Julia!"

I forced one man to his feet and slammed him into the bathroom wall, his nose and cheek breaking from the impact. Hwoarang had already dealt with two of the men, who lied unconscious at his feet, and he was trying to wrestle me away from the third. It was no use, of course. I flung the redhead away as easily as I would a child. She was strong, and sometimes I forgot that until Hwoarang's head made a cracking noise against the linoleum. He winced as white heat ripped through his skull.

"Oh my God…"

Rushing to his side, my heart still humming with after-rage, I cradled his head between my hands so I could look at the damage, but Hwoarang jerked away and stumbled to his feet. Behind me, the third man slumped against the wall, unconscious.

Beyond the windows, sunlight seeped over the horizon like untamed watercolor, beginning as a throbbing cranberry crimson that almost resembled the color on my hands. The red exploded into a gold-blue sky. Hwoarang felt the day coming. His face was one of masked fear, but he knew things couldn't hide under the sun for very long, so I didn't protest as he stripped off my sweatshirt and tank top, flung the bloody garments in the trash as discreetly as he could, and shoved his T-shirt over my head. Bare-chested and quivering from shock, Hwoarang dragged me to the sink and scrubbed at my flesh; he washed off so much blood it seemed as if I'd been the one bleeding. He raked and rubbed so hard pink lines formed on my arms and neck and chest, his nails becoming black-red crescent moons.

It was almost erotic. I could feel Yepa pushing against my mouth. But I stood there looking in the mirror as he frantically cleaned me up, a gruesome baptism, my limbs as limp as those Seattle zombies. For a moment I forgot where I was. He scrubbed me until the red ribbons disappeared and I was as golden blue as that dawn.

When he finished, he asked me if I was all right. I didn't know, so I didn't answer, but he wasn't about to linger to pry out the words he wanted to hear, so we boarded the bus two minutes before it had a chance to abandon us.

For miles he wouldn't talk to me or look at me. I didn't mind. I was too lost in my own thoughts to try and follow a conversation.

How long would this go on? Didn't you learn anything from your mother, who thought martial arts would teach you to control that terrible stinger, to channel that blizzard temper into something good?

"Why didn't you just leave me there? Why'd you even bother?" I asked Hwoarang when we crossed the border out of Cali.

He took his time answering. For a few seconds I thought he'd never open his mouth.

"Because right afterward, you looked just as scared as I was," he finally murmured. "That's why you're out here, isn't it? So you can't hurt people."

I became silent then. I realized I was still shivering. Please don't look at me...

"No, Hwoarang. I'll always hurt people. Being here is just…a detour."

I hugged his T-shirt closer to my flesh, the black cotton still warm with his heat. He'd just about seen me naked. As soon as Yepa's there, it's over. For a moment, I considered apologizing to him about what he saw me do. Instead, I hunkered down into my seat and wondered how far away the next rest stop was; as much as I despised those parts of myself, I wasn't about to apologize for who I was, especially to someone I barely knew. But then I wondered how the blonde would have reacted if he'd seen the snow woman. Would he give me his clothes and take me with him and try to understand?

The only problem was that Yepa refused to reveal herself whenever the blonde was around. Perhaps it was because he was just that good at keeping me happily distracted, and at making me feel like I was safe when I wasn't at all.

The sun, now a defiant glare, pierced through the window and forced Hwoarang's gaze to mine.

"You just—exploded," he said, after some time. "I mean, I thought I was violent, but you...you took it past self-defense. You don't seem like that type at all."

"Well, I am," I said. "Recall that I killed four men."

I knew who I was, or at least, who I should be, until Yepa decided life was better lived on the verge of death.

When their lives were in danger, some people were pushed to do things they never dreamed they were capable of doing. They went crazy with strength they didn't know they possessed. I just took it further and I always have. Why was it like that? Was it because I was afraid of being hurt, so I had to overcompensate? Or had I repressed some part of myself, some stronger being, for so long that just now it was breaking free?

How do you dismantle a part of yourself without killing the whole?

Or should you learn to embrace something venomous, as it has made you into what you are today? You are not completely bad after all, so what's to worry about?

"By the way," Hwoarang said, scratching the back of his head like he did when he was about to ask something inappropriately personal. "Who's Steve?"

Something in my belly ached and twisted itself into a knot, worse than menstrual cramps, worse than being punched in the gut; the feeling slithered up to twine about my rib cage and heart. I haven't heard or said or thought that name in more than a year. It was sacred, like making love, like imploring God, like using the most vile curse word imaginable.

"Don't say that name again."

My voice came out as a snarl, but the redhead seemed unperturbed.

"Why not? You say it all the time in your sleep."

"I swear to God, Hwoarang…"

He didn't utter another word.


Last December, it was my birthday. I was walking in the snow with only my wool blanket to guard against the cold. The blonde was geared head to toe in the latest winter fashion: a trendy North Face jacket that I loathed; a teal beanie hat that made his eyes bluer and hair paler; a Ron Weasley-esque knitted scarf from his Aunt Anna; crinkled leather gloves that were soft when he held my hand; and Snow Beast boots from REI he'd bought two days before coming to the reservation. He kept telling me I was crazy. I kept unwinding the scarf he draped over my neck, and twice I threw his hat in his face when he mussed up my braids trying to force it onto my head. He clasped me in a bear hug, and wouldn't let me go until I agreed to wear the beanie.

It was like that most of the times. Peaceful. Dreamy-eyed. Disillusioned.

We hiked for two hours. The wind wasn't terrible and the falling snow was gentle, but the blonde shivered anyway. I adored the way his nose and cheeks turned bright pink from winter's kiss. Above us the copper-colored plateaus loomed like ancient sleeping gods, the gray skies their bedding, the cacophonic wind their pillows. The blonde was alarmed when he turned around and noticed paw prints in the snow; a large coyote had been stalking us for a good hour before giving up when we reached higher ground.

When we stopped at the small cave I used to frequent as a teenager, the blonde took me in his arms and kissed me. Soon we were shivering, but not from the cold. I think he was secretly grateful for my simple garb, as it was easier to remove when he pinned me to the ground and reached between my legs. I clung to him, afraid I'd be undone, as his heat melted me and made me sing his name, that sacred name.

There was something feral about making love in the cold. It made us feel more alive. It made us press that much closer to one another for warmth. Inside me he felt even more fragile, thrusting like a second pulse. With his lips at my throat I felt as if I knew the answers to every question I'd ever asked myself; with his mouth on mine, Yepa was silenced. Without one another we were as ordinary as anyone could get, but together we sculpted our dreams with trembling, determined hands. We danced drunk on illusions of happiness, on overpriced lattes, and hikes into the sky. We were novels unread; we were whores screaming misunderstood profundities. We were poets in love with our tragedy and in search for madness. Loving you in the cold was madness. Loving you at all was madness. It was beautiful. You took me there.

"Right here, right now, is all I want. Ever."

"Even the snow?"

"Even the snow."

He hugged me tightly, making me feel every hard muscle of his arms and chest. White as winter, warm as spring. I love you, and that's all.

Somewhere out there we left our footprints in the snow. Somewhere out there we made wildflowers grow in the ice. I wish I could find that trail again. I wish it were all that mattered.