The Cracks in the Ice

Trigger Warning: Abusive relationship, mild profanity, death

I don't know where I am.

Oh. That's fine. I am hiding, after all.

I'm hiding where no one can find me: Beneath the brush. In the trees. Under the lake. Above the sky. No one will find me.

But I hear footsteps.

They crunch over the frozen dirt. Atop dead leaves flaked with frost. Around barren trees. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

I want to yell, "go away!" but then I won't be hiding anymore. 

The moon is full and round. Its white light points at them. It seems to shout, "There they are! There they are!"

One of them walks in front. He breathes smoke. Like a dragon. The other one is not a dragon. She is a shadow. I can't see her face no matter how hard I try. But I can hear them. I can listen.

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The weather lady said it was supposed to be cold. Frigid temperatures all night, she insisted. 

Please. 

There is barely a chill in the air. I put a cigarette to my lips and exhale, watching my breath coalesce with the smoke. 

"Hey, Layla, look at that," I chuckle. She doesn't respond. What the hell? I raise my voice. "I said—"

"That's really cool. Matthew." She whispers. 

(She should have said that louder, more enthusiastically.)

We continue walking. I lead the way. I am a man on a mission. But I hear Layla's gloved hands move up and down her scratchy winter jacket. Her teeth are chattering.

So exaggerated. It isn't even cold out. That weather lady didn't know what she was talking about. No one does. Because I am out here with my flannel and jeans and cigarette and it is not cold.

"W-why..." Layla falters, "are we out here?" I take another puff. She needs to stop acting like this. Because that's what all this is, acting. I reel around.

"Do you not want to be here?" I hiss. Layla freezes.

"M-Matthew..." she stammers. I study her. She left her hair down. It acts like an obsidian-colored curtain around her face. She's wearing a hat too. I'm not. She can't be that cold. "I..." she quivers. God, spit it out! "Where are we g-going?" I throw my hands into the air in disbelief. 

"Where are we, Layla? Huh? Use your context clues! Kindergartners could figure this out!" She flinches. She does that a lot. It's very annoying. 

"T-the woods," she says. I wait for her to continue. She doesn't. 

"God, you're hopeless," I groan. "These," I say with an outrageous flourish of my arms to get it through her skull, "are the woods I camped in as a kid." Layla doesn't show a flicker of recognition. "I talk about this all the time!" I shout. Why is she so thick? I swear if she didn't have me to protect her, who knows how she would have ended up in the world. She should be thankful. 

Pine trees stretch into the sky. Ribbons of tree roots grasp the earth like wailing women.

Heh. Wailing women—alliteration.

I am like the great pioneers, traversing nature's dangers in search of my answer. "There it is," I point to the clearing ahead of us. "The lake I used to swim at." I go to flick some ash off my cigarette butt. It takes a couple of tries. My fingertips feel stiff. Can't be from the cold though. There's barely a breeze here.

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The dragon is large and loud. So loud. I want to scream "shut up!" because he'll give me away. I still can't see his shadow. She is a stranger to me. But she's quiet. She won't give me away. I like her.

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It takes 15 minutes to prepare the meatballs. 20 minutes to bake them. 8 minutes to cook the pasta al dente. I pour the sauce from the jar, so that doesn't really count (let's just say it takes 2 minutes though. That way, the times add up to an easy number). If I begin to make dinner at 5:00, then it's ready to eat at 5:45. That's 6-and-a-half minutes before Matthew comes home. A 6-and-a-half minute safety net.

Tonight, Matthew came home 20 minutes early.

He didn't explain why. But the meatballs weren't ready yet, the table wasn't set, and damn-it-Layla-why-can't-you-do-anything-right?

There's this weariness in my bones that follows me wherever I go. Even in sleep. It ached even more while Matthew yelled. 

Then the weather channel caught his attention. 

I had left it on as background noise while I cooked.

Something, anything, to keep me from being truly alone.

Matthew was fixated on the weather woman. I didn't recognize her voice; she must have been new. She motioned with her hands and described the hourly forecast for the night. 18°F and dropping.

"No way," Matthew mumbled to himself. "I was just outside, it's not that cold." His attention diverted, I finished preparing dinner as quickly and quietly as possible. Hurry, hurry, hurry. "Let's go." Matthew's gruff voice broke the uneasy silence. A familiar sense of dread bloomed inside my stomach.

"Go?" I asked. Matthew dug around for his cigarette pack.

"We're going," he grumbled distractedly, "it's not that cold out." I barely had time to grab my jacket. My gloves and hat were hidden in its pockets.

We drove for an hour. Matthew didn't say anything. The last remnants of the winter sunset dissipated into a black sky as we arrived at our location.

"It used to be bigger." Matthew's voice brings me back into the present. He's staring at the lake, which, if anything, is the size of a glorified pond. A layer of ice coats its surface. The ice is proof, an assurance.

I'm not exaggerating. I'm not acting. It is actually cold.

Matthew has a distracted glaze over his eyes as if he's remembering something from long ago. This is the safest time to reask him my question.

"Matthew," I whisper. Gently, gently. "Why are we here?" He blinks and looks at me incredulously. 

"Because it's not that cold."

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The closer they get, the less scared I become. 

So I creep closer too. 

I can see the dragon clearer and clearer. Not his shadow, though. She's still blurry and confusing. I liked how "gone" she was before. Now it frustrates me. I want to see, I want to see!

And then "snap!"

Two very important things happen, and everything I need to know becomes clear.

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"M-Matthew." Matthew, Matthew, Matthew. God, that's all she ever says. I grab another cigarette. Why are my fingers so numb? Light. Puff. Ah. Better. The tree branches wave. I bet they are already budding, ready for the springtime. They have to be; it's not that cold out, after all. I swear I can practically make out their tiny flowers, even in the dark.

"Let's go for a swim." 

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Number one: The dragon is not even a little bit blurry anymore.

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The dread blossoms inside me again.

"Are you out of your mind?" I gasp. The lake's icy surface glistens in the moonlight. Can that even support the weight of a person? The ice is real, so I know it is cold.

My panic is real, so I know this is dangerous.

Matthew ignores me and walks towards the frozen water anyway. 

"You better take off your hat and gloves," he grumbles as he nears the edge, flicking away his cigarette. Fear claws at my throat. No, no, no.

"Matthew!" I scream.

I scream? Yes, I must have. Because I can still hear the echo of my voice, and even he can't tell me that's not real.

Matthew whips around and flies into my face. His eyes are furious.

"HOW THE HELL DID YOU JUST TALK TO ME?" He roars. I want to flinch. I want to disappear. But something new spurs inside of me. The ice is real. I have to be strong.

"Matthew," I say once more. One last time. One last offer.

And this time, I mean it. 

But I don't know how to tell him that. What words could I possibly use? So I gently, gently, take his hand into my trembling ones. It's freezing. His fingertips are turning blue. Understand, I silently plead. Understand. "L-let's go home, okay?" Understand.

For once, Matthew looks caught off guard. His eyes are shifting left and right, left and right. The seconds that pass feel like hours. Understand, understand.

"No."

The dread spreads further.

Matthew snatches his hand from me like I burned him. "No," he repeats. "Get over here. It's not that cold." My heart plummets into my stomach. I feel myself spiraling down, down, down. Undulating waves of helplessness threaten to drown me. 

But the ice is real and it is cold. And I cannot live like this anymore. 

So I stumble back a few steps. And I stand my ground.

Matthew's eyes darken. "I'll show you," he growls. "I'll show you I'm right." 

And he walks onto the ice.

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Almost there, almost there.

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Layla is silent behind me.

(She should be apologizing. She should be less outrageous).

She is wrong, and I am right. She is wrong, and I am right. She is wrong, and I am right.

And I'll show her. I'll force her to see.

The ice (ice?) is smooth, even as my eyes discern tiny ripples in its texture. I put my left foot forward. A bubble rises under the ice's surface. But I am a man on a mission.

So I march on.

It really isn't that difficult to walk on ice. Unless someone is an idiot or a cartoon character, they'll be just fine. I'll be fine. 

I used to spend every summer in these woods. I swam in this lake all of the time. I know this world so well, like the back of my—

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Number two: The ice breaks.

I am no longer hiding. This is my domain.

Everything I need to know is all clear now.

I could not see her because she was not mine to take. Not yet.

I cannot see her as she walks away, but somehow I know she is not a shadow anymore.

I see him clearly because he is mine to take. So I take him into the endless nothing.

I am Death, and I take the monster under the ice.