The Cold

The first thing that he noticed when he plunged into the depths of the Connecticut was the cold. It wasn’t a minor inconvenience like the many chilly mornings he had experienced during his overextended tenure as a graveyard security officer; no, this was one of the most uncomfortable, if not painful things he had ever experienced. However, both titles were soon given to the sting that pulsated from the newfound gash that appeared in his lower stomach just moments after the jump, most likely attributed to the sharp rocks the stream had forced upon him.

However, the river’s cold was no match for the cold of life: every day, every week, every month blending together into one indistinguishable stream, flowing from one meaningless event to the next, always going somewhere, but never going anywhere. 

At least, that is what he thought before his fateful dive. He was only supposed to work at the cemetery while he looked for a higher paying job, only for a few months, but that happened to last three years, which is remarkable, as barely anything else in his life had lasted such a long time. His relationships only stayed afloat for weeks at a time, the luckiest lasting almost a year, but all inevitably sank into failure in the end. Something about him being ‘too distant’ or ‘too cold’. How ironic; now, at his coldest, he was at his least cold, reflecting on all he’s done and wishing that he could’ve done better.

The water accelerated.

But, after his fateful dive, he wasn’t so certain. Sure, there was nothing of measure waiting for him above the surface, but was that his fault? If he tried to fix what was broken, could he build himself a life worth living?

All of that didn’t really matter at the moment, though, as he was drowning.

Every time he tried to succumb to the cascading water crashing above him, something deep within him tried to prevent his descent below, forcing him to try to keep himself alive, whether it be by swimming to safety, or looking for safety, or anything that had to do with safety, respite from the river’s frigid onslaught. Eventually, he gave up, not on life, but on death, and began searching for an escape, any escape: if he didn’t break free of the icy grasp soon, there’d be no doubt about his fate.

The gash in his chest had been complemented throughout his journey by a variety of smaller ones scattered across his arms and legs, caused by the multitude of rocky faces jutting out just close enough to the surface to inflict intense pain, but not enough to aid his attempt to free himself from the watery prison (and if he wasn’t careful, grave) that he found himself in. 

The water accelerated.

However, the pain wouldn’t be a problem for long; his senses, especially touch, were all becoming more and more numb as time progressed, his skin becoming as white as the rapids that controlled him. The path he took became marked with a faint trail of red, though it was getting more difficult to see in the lowering sun’s light. Soon, he won’t be able to see anything ahead of him. Oh, how he wished the same was true of his life.

Soon, he became unequivocally certain that he did not want to die. Did he want to live? Perhaps not, but the former option seemed far more frightening a prospect, and he had to get out of this situation, even if he only had so little to go back to.

He hadn’t even left a note, only a simple message telling his boss that he won’t come into work for a while. His boss had always told him that he was the best watchman he’d ever had the pleasure of overseeing, but he supposed that wasn’t a huge honour; many could walk around a graveyard for a few hours without falling asleep, but he’d take such a boring job back in a heartbeat if it meant that he’d get out of the river.

However, that didn’t seem too likely: just barely in his visual range was a steep drop, five or six meters down, with the adjoining areas dispersed all with rocks of grey, black, and soon red if he wasn’t careful. The wait was almost fatal, progressing at a speed that would be painfully slow if he could feel pain any longer. Sadly, that suspense would soon be remediated.

The water accelerated.

After being slammed into a massive protruding rock bespotted all with spearlike serifs, he groaned in the little pain he could still feel, but managed to latch onto a flat (though small) face and held on with all the fading energy he could muster.

Mere meters from the precipice, legs swaying in the current, his nails dug holes into the stone at the sheer weight of him being forced away, but he stayed there for what seemed like a whole wasted lifetime. Unfortunately, a side effect of hypothermia is loss of grip strength, and he was flung off the ledge into the rocky pool below. 

The two seconds he waited to hit the cold depths beneath him were nearly the longest wait of his life, not beating the wait for a purpose in life to come to him, but coming very close.

Falling from the cliff above, he thought of the many roads he took to get here; what could he have done to change his fate? Probably not jumping into a river would’ve been a good choice, but there had to have been something at the root of it all. Was his life truly unfixable? Was there no way to salvage what had already been broken?

Regardless, his injuries were unfixable after slamming onto the cold, hard floor below; unable to get back up, his last breath taken was full of water.

His body was found washed up in a small inlet a few miles south by a hunter, and he was soon identified as who he was. Later that week, he was buried next to the guard storage shack as a reminder of the great work he did for the cemetery. Not many came to his funeral, but those who did cared, and they cared greatly.

Resting beneath the surface of the Earth laid his body, in the end being reunited with the cold.