wildscape. literary journal

Dead Cold
by Claudia Doucet

It’s around here, somewhere. I scan the dark ice beneath my feet. How abysmal it seems, even though it’s only a lake. Not a single sign of life under the thick, invisible layer. It’s like staring through a looking glass, where everything lays dormant on the other side. Its lively flow replaced by waves of powdery snow. The wind does a great job at clearing any trails or footsteps that might help me find what I seek.

          I keep wandering aimlessly while the glacial chasm stares back. This is pointless; like chasing a needle in a haystack. I sigh, the willingness to admit defeat looming dangerously close – while the preciousness of what I have lost slowly numbs away as the body does in winter’s embrace. It’s easy to give up. I can turn back anytime, move on… Can’t I? Another gust envelops me in white, devoid of any warmth, and yet, it feels like a gentle push forward. As if something’s expecting me, waiting for me to reclaim it from its frozen cage.

          I can’t remember where I lost it, or even what ‘it’ is. My memories are a blur. It is a haunting feeling that compels me to continue my search. It’s strange; whatever lies underneath the ice, I instinctively know that I need it. I am riddled by such a strong attachment, that I can’t pinpoint. Time is lost on me. The clear blue sky and the bright sun shining above offer, oddly enough, no indicator. How long have I been doing this? What seems like hours might be days, or even weeks.

          My eyes spy a faint white line carved in the ice. It presents itself like the opening of a trail. An open invitation. My instinct draws me along, until one crack becomes two. Then three. I follow them as they multiply, like pieces of a puzzle. One that would paint the picture that is missing. Some dance perilously together, intertwined in paler shapes that have healed overnight. But it can’t be. There is no night; not that I have seen in a while.

          The fissures amplify and expand as I hurry to the heart of my pursuit. My crown jewel in the glass case. I fall to my knees, but they do not hit the solid surface. There it is, finally.

          My body, preserved under the ice.

about the author // Claudia Doucet