Wait, where's the weapon?

She'd been running in the woods when it had happened. She usually loves this time of year, everything was so much more vivid. The crisp, whiteness of the snow against the blood red of the twittering robins and the dark trees, standing tall and proud, with icicles like dazzling swords precariously dangling from their slender fingers. The crunch of the snow beneath her boots, so much louder in the dead silence of the woods and the distinct but indescribable scent of freezing air, clear in the forest, impenetrable by the outside word. At least it has seemed impenetrable.

One second she'd been turning to admire the gushing water beside her and the next she'd been lying beside a body, with its frozen eyes and plastic face like that of a horrible doll.