White angels slowly twirled and danced around me. But they would disappear as soon as they gently landed on my purple, outstretched tongue. The ear thumping silence was quenched with the harsh crunch of every staggered step and the harsh drag of my every breath. All was still. All sat perfect, as if ready for presentation with a thick layer of soft white icing for aesthetic. I scanned ahead cracking my stiffly frozen parka from the movement. But only the same, almost staged, perfection of stillness and dancing crystals revealed itself. By now I had long ditched my broken skis. Three and a half years I cared for them and now they had left me. A heartbreak of sorts if you wish. Yet this hurt was more than a heartbreak, as each painful breath didn’t relieve me as I kept foolishly hoping it would. It only further tightened my chest. Suddenly my boots stopped sinking into the snow as much with my every step. The ground below had hardened. It wasn’t rocky though; it was unnaturally flat. Glancing down I could still see the white powder. But as I bent over, knees buckling, and cleared the powder, I saw my own cold reflection. Warped maybe, but still definitely me. I smiled slightly, cracking my blistered lips. “Rivers always lead to people,” as mum always used to say, in case I got lost tobogganing or fishing when I was young. But I never did. Ironic? Maybe, but I listened for once and set off downstream or at least I hoped it was. The even surface was a relief I thought, despite me not being able to feel my lower half.
As I walked, stiff jointed, I began to reminisce. The snow ball fights after school, as our whole class would stay back, engaged in a catharsis of personal rivalries. There were jiggles and shrieks of joy, which now only echoed noisily in my memories, filling the frozen silence. Noses grew red and cheeks a bright pink as a sharp chill would pinch at our faces. Then we promptly scattered as a teacher would scream out. Returning home was the best part. A thick, warm aroma of mum’s baked potatoes surrounded me, while the thin steam from a large, tall pot of freshly brewed tea would bring me to the safety of my blankets and the warm embrace of our gently crackling fireplace. Yet this fondly reminisced warmth returned to a fleeting illusion. I saw it leave as I exhaled a crisp fog.
Slowly I began to tell myself I couldn’t keep stumbling onward like this anymore. I could swear that I had walked at least another couple kilometres. But it all seemed indistinguishably similar. The white angels still danced, yet dizzily now. The trees, cosily wrapped in sheets of white powder, now appeared crooked and disfigured. My breaths were sharp and infrequent. An intoxicating nausea clung to the back of my head. I stopped. I stood still, eyes pressed shut, swaying ever so slightly. My legs abruptly gave way as I was reduced to my knees. Each breath hurt. I could taste faintly the metallic flavor from my blood cracked lips. As before, I pushed away the powder revealing a warped mirror. Yet this time I saw my younger self, blissfully naive. Behind me stood the dark figure of my eldest brother. I knew the crooked glint that would have sparkled in his eyes. We were at the first thinly frozen pond I ever learnt to ice fish from. He stood behind me, waiting. And as the dreaded, or perhaps, hopefully anticipated, last gasp failed… he pushed me in.
About the Creator
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More stories from Greg Dolgopolov and writers in Confessions and other communities.
Bovine Intervention
His eyes were the last thing I saw every time. Dust would be kicked up by my dancing black leather shoes as the intricate gold filigree of my attire glistened in the sun. My mouth would be dry. I could not swallow the salty tang of sweat, but my gaze, unlike my hands, was steady. Yet, no matter which way I flicked the red cape, no matter which way I spun or with how much flare, his eyes were the last thing I saw. They were black. But they weren’t just black. This black talked even if he couldn’t. This black was uncanny. Even the darkness of my room, every time I routinely burst out of a shallow slumber, was brighter. Yet it was always mum’s warm body, and a fear of getting yelled at which eventually put me back to sleep. Since mum and dad split up when I was three, according to mum - I don’t actually remember, we had moved into our very own little house. Not a word was spoken of dad since. There was a deadly silence the first and only time I had asked. I got the message. Our house was two bedrooms, but really one and a half, so mum and I had always slept together in our shared room. Anyway, small room or not, I couldn’t fall asleep by myself. I even told mum about what I kept seeing, but she passed it off as just a little kiddie thing while insisting I do my English homework before she gets the belt. Mum listened very well, but she had no time for these childish problems. Even though I had never known what it must have been like with dad here, my young unruly self could see that life was hard on mum. I could see her frown lines cut deeper, her eye wrinkles more defined, yet the limp tugging of her lips was the worst of all. She only wore her warming smile with me, but sometimes when I was at home, I would catch her true expression. I had not fallen over enough of life’s hurdles to recognise that one yet. Nonetheless, our life was good. After my interrupted sleep I would wake to an empty bed and the aroma of a fried breakfast. Breakfast was the best meal of the day. Mum somehow always made the simplest foods taste the best, but she’d always make me eat a free Woolies green apple beforehand. Every time I would always place the fruit stickers under our laminate covered dining table as an act of delinquent rebellion. After the morning tomfoolery and a scramble to make the school bus, the day fell into monotony. That was until the routine dread of sleep’s faulty veneer would envelop me once more. The nights got worse. The dread before sleep increased. My unquenched need to tell mum everything, again, grew stronger. The nightly dance with those dark eyes intensified. My flaring of that red cape enraged those eyes, just for his horns to glide under it. Yet despite my fighting efforts, every time his eyes were the last thing I saw. I didn’t know what to do. So one morning I decided. That’s it. I’m finally telling mum. I wanted to say something to her as she cooked, but my tongue simply flailed behind my pressed lips. As mum covered the hissing food I slumped silently at the table. The doorbell rang. I pulled myself out of my chair at the sound, and yelled, “I got it!”, making my way to the front of the house. “It’s probably my parcel,” replied mum as she opened the door just before me.
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