Thin Ice
a story by David Woodward
The ice crackled beneath me. It moaned and snapped as I made my way across the frozen, aquatic land. Though it threatened my every step, threatened to take me under to the world beneath, it held me gently, allowing me to reach the other side. When I looked back at my improbable path, I could see every step I took — a narrow stream meandering through a frozen land.
I often dream of being chased — the frantic reverie that isn’t quite severe enough to be classified as a nightmare. In these chase scenes there is always a glimmer of hope. Usually, but not always, I have a gun to defend myself from my invisible attackers. However, it never works. Or, when it finally does go off, the bullets merely fall pathetically to the ground — a mere foot or two from where I stand. Inevitably the chase pursues. But, now, the attackers also have guns, and their weaponry works just fine. It’s as though everything I dream up, everything I think of to defend myself with is being picked up by my adversaries. Sometimes I almost want to scream out in my dreams, “Ah, come on, where did you get the guns from? Just because I have one doesn’t mean you should have one too.” I fail to realize in my dreams that I, too, produced my gun from out of nowhere; I fail to realize that it is in fact a dream.
But not entirely. There is some recognition deep within my psyche that is telling me that what is going on is not, in fact, real. I might not be able to grasp that it is a dream exactly, but I seem to recognize that what is going on is not altogether happening, that it is not actually happening to me. This actualization of sorts leads me to ponder whether a dream might explain these bizarre, exhausting scenarios. Somewhere in my mind I try and keep track of the events that are unfolding around me. I imagine writing it down, then I realize I am asleep. I change strategies. I memorize the scenes in hopes that I’ll remember it in the morning where I’ll grab my pen (always out of ink) and paper that lie beside my bed and record the tragic moments of my capture, my escape, or once, my death. These moments also fade when I find the bullets getting too close to me and I question again whether this is all real, or whether I am just a writer hoping to find an easy story, a story better than one dreamed up in his pathetic waking life. Instead of pondering the possibilities for too long, and risking my death again, I run as fast as a dreaming person can run. This of course leads to the next phase of the chasing dream: the inability to perform a movement that we’ve been doing since the age of two. In this stationary stage, I watch the same scenery over and over as my legs move faster and faster, taking me nowhere but to exhaustion. This animated phase leads to my I’m late for something dream and I get nowhere again. If it weren’t for the frustrating fact that something inside my brain is questioning the validity of my illogical dreams this would all be a nightmare. Caught between frustration and fear, I sometimes wish I had more nightmares. Legitimate ones.
On the other side of the eerie lake, I fell to the ground, exhausted, frustrated and frightened. The watery path I wove across the frozen desert was the only sign of my existence. Would they use it to find me? Were they still following me? Who was chasing me again?
I used to hold Jennifer so tightly I imagined her head popping off her neck. Like the way the cork shoots off a bottle of champagne. Jennifer loved champagne. I never thought I had a violent streak because no blood ever escaped the exposed region. If I were a violent person surely I would also imagine great pools of blood streaming out of her headless corpse. I never saw any; none ever came when I decapitated her with my loving embraces. Not even sparkling champagne exited her bubbly body.
If I were, in fact, violent in nature, my gun would function properly in my dreams. The bullets would fire straight out of the smoking barrel with such a force that it would be impossible not to penetrate deep into someone’s flesh with an equal force. Inevitably, blood would follow. Great streams of scarlet liquid flowing everywhere. A total mess. But, I never dream this. I am, therefore, not violent.
Is it possible to love someone to death? Did it make my love stronger? Jennifer never really held me, not even after sex. She’d just role over as soon as I came inside her. Once she even pushed me off her. “Get off,” were her exact words. I slid off of her with my slippery, sweating body — not really reptilian at all, as she said. I wanted to hold her very tightly after she said that. Did that mean that I loved her aggression? That I loved her aloof manner? I could have held her so tight after she said that that I would have popped her head clear off, the pressure of my loving embrace more forceful than any boa, or python of the Old World . Perhaps I am — was — a New World Man with Old World Ways . I liked to think I was a snake when I made love to Jennifer. I thought snakes were sexy. Slippery. Muscular. Contracting. Penetrating. Coiling. Wrapping. Embracing. I never wanted to get off Jennifer. Just the thought of her sexy, serpentine frame could get me off.
When I started running across the great lake, it was frozen solid. There was no hint of it giving way. Every step I took was solid, firm. Like moving on land except it was slippery. I fell often as I made my way across, looking back periodically to see if I was being pursued. Running- slipping-falling was my pattern for most of the way. I looked back when I fell. I fell often.
It wasn’t until I reached the American side (at least I assumed I was on American ground, or rather, American water) that I felt the ice thinning, my solid step cracking beneath, the hollow echo splitting the path behind me. It was at this point of my escape that I began to feel my legs giving away in a helpless, futile way. It seemed as though no matter how fast I pumped my legs the distance between me and the other side never got any closer. The scenery around me stayed the same for miles on end. It was nothing but white ice, the frigid land opening up behind me — the oasis I never saw. My initial fear gave way to one of frustration as I got nowhere. Fast. Inside my head an artillery of emotions were racing through me, extending throughout my body. This nervous energy surged through my entire corpse, only my legs felt like lead. They took me nowhere. Fast. The weapon of choice in my dreams, the gun that always betrayed me, had become me. Expecting to shoot out across the slippery land, I stumbled over myself, almost falling into the disintegrating tundra as it crumbled behind me, a bomb going off in the wake of my hasty steps.
Jennifer and I went to a rave one night. I had never taken ecstacy before. I have to admit I wasn’t much of a drug person. Not since high school and those dreadful memories of me taking mushrooms, shrooms as we called them then. God, I used to imagine people walking down the long, narrow hallways with legs but with no upper bodies. Or, if I was able to concentrate hard enough on the upper portion of their missing bodies — hoping and praying that I would — I would lose track of their legs. Then, it would be torsos and arms floating mystically down the hallway towards me. It scared the shit out of me. I would tell my friend next to me on the hall bench under the overly bright lights. He’d laugh. He thought it was the greatest thing in the world. I’d turn and look at him. But all I’d see was a head floating in the air, not even a neck to stand on. His smile would reach across his entire face, his white teeth glaring next to his dark complexion. I stopped looking at his frightening image and focused harder down the hall. It wasn’t any better. The legs were gone. The torsos and arms were also missing. All that remained were drifting heads working their way down the bright hallway. They were all heading towards me. I looked for myself. I couldn’t see a thing. I didn’t think I existed. I wondered how I imagined to see all of this. The only thing I knew was that this fear was legitimate. I pretended to be asleep.
The ecstacy trip wasn’t any better. It was less psychedelic but no less freaky. While I experienced the down side to the drug, that is, cotton mouth, sleeplessness, paranoia, and heart palpitations, I didn’t experience the euphoric part, the ecstatic side. What proved even worse was that Jennifer did. She became loving, peaceful, touching everyone in sight. She started with me, wrapping herself tighter around me than during our most carnal-filled moments. But I was only the beginning. Grooving into the beat of the music, she swayed around the room like a beatific ballet dancer, groping every man and woman in sight. This went on all night while I sulked nervously in a corner with some un-drugged people. Unfortunately, since they were under no chemical influence, they could sleep through the whole depressing scene while I was forced to watch. The more I observed Jennifer slipping through the crowded mass the more she resembled a serpent. The image obsessed me. My heart beat faster and faster, my groin tingled, my head shook to the rave of the high-strung music with both rage and lust. She danced with every single guy on the dance floor, no exception.
When it was time to leave, I grabbed her arm, squeezing my large hand around her tiny wrist until she screamed. It felt good. My fingers left a print of my rage. It remained for days after. She wouldn’t look at me or speak to me until it was gone. When it completely faded, we resumed our courtship. I never saw her as the snake after that. I would forever be the slippery reptile in the relationship thereafter. I, also, swore off drugs. However, I suspected that she continued to abuse them on her girls’ nights out.
At one point while I was crossing the great frozen lake, I swear I saw a ship beside me. It skidded across the ice, cutting a path that dug into the water below. As it did porpoises, seals, and penguins popped their heads up out of the water, relieved to be up for air. One of them — I don’t know if it was a porpoise, a seal, a penguin, or maybe even a whale, an eel perhaps — looked just like Jennifer. When I waved to her — my legs still pumping fast but not getting anywhere at this point as fatigue, paranoia and frustration began to set in — she looked right past me as though I wasn’t there. I thought that was just like her to ignore me like that. She hadn’t learned a thing.
She held a birthday party for me once. She invited all our friends, including both our parents. It was held at a ski lodge. But I didn’t ski. I never did. She liked to ski all the time. I would watch from the chalet as she would swish her way gracefully down the mountain. It looked like a lot of fun. Too bad I was afraid of heights.
On my birthday that year, with my hot chocolate in hand, I again, watched her go down the mountain, her golden hair flowing wildly behind her, a flock of young men in hot pursuit. It seemed like a game of some sorts — she in the lead, a merry band of flying bulls frantically trying to reach her. Snakes and ladders, Jennifer the head of the snake, leading the meandering beast down, down, down. They never did reach her, however, she was so very good at going down.
Tiring of watching her game with her new friends, I took to the skating rink nearby. On solider and lower ground, I put on my skates and went around the tiny patch of ice that they kept for vertigo sufferers such as myself. Late winter, the edges were beginning to melt, a long puddle of water ran along the edge. In certain thin, patchy spots, I could feel the ground underneath. It crackled underfoot. Still, I went around and around, alone except for a young mother with two small children. Circling the same spot at the base of the mountain, I could keep my eye on Jennifer as she raced effortlessly down the hill, the boys at her heels. I wasn’t particularly good at skating either but at least I wasn’t afraid. However, I did get annoyed when the children laughed when I fell for the umpteenth time. The mother never even told them not to. My knees not able to take another fall, I went back to the chalet.
Inside, the real party had begun. After being out in the fresh air all day, the warmth of the fire in the central spot of the large loft felt fine. But it wasn’t long until it started to hurt. Perhaps I had a mild case of frostbite. Jennifer was glowing. She kissed me on the cheek. I, in turn, grabbed her and kissed her firmly on the mouth, slipping my tongue inside, sliding it around trying to find hers. I couldn’t find it. Desperately I sought her tongue with mine, checking every crevice of her delicious mouth. I couldn’t find it. Where could she have put her tongue so that I wouldn’t be able to reach it? Was it deliberate on her part? She always said I had a long tongue, my licks sweet, my flicks accurate. Why would she hide hers from mine? Had she finally become afraid of snakes? I squeezed her into to me tighter and tighter, constricting her, hoping this would make her comply with my wish. It was, after all, my birthday. The others looked on. Some coughed. Others merely cleared their throats. Finally my mother said, “Open your gifts, dear. We all want to see what you got.” I released Jennifer from my grasp and gazed into her eyes, searching for signs of my love, and hers, in her rich blue eyes. I swore I saw the reflection of the bulls, the ones that only moments earlier, had been chasing her down the hill into the valley below.
When I finished opening the boxes that held my long underwear, my sweaters, my fleece jackets, my turtlenecks and my CDs, I looked around the room for Jennifer. I checked the dance floor and the many tables where the party goers settled into with more drinks than they could handle. I even went out to the slopes to see if she had headed for a nighttime run. But her skis were still on the rack, her name engraved into the upper top portion of them in bright pink for all the world to see. Her bright pink name on glossy black skis, you couldn’t miss them. In case another pink Jennifer with black skis should find their way to the same ski hill, she had the “J” in her name shaped into the form a pink bunny. (So, in fact, her name read “Bennifer,” the bunny looking like a deformed “B.”)
After sulking around the lower portions of the slopes for a while, I finally decided to return to the party inside, but not before going for a walk in the woods first. Inside the dark canopy, I heard voices off in the distance. It sounded like the wind whistling through the trees, only wind and trees don’t speak. I tried to pinpoint the direction from which it came. I walked all over, retracing my steps until I couldn’t tell where I was or if I had covered that particular area. I felt like I was on a treadmill, my legs moving faster and faster, yet taking me nowhere. Perhaps I was going in circles. The voices never got any closer and I couldn’t be certain of what they were saying exactly, but I swear I heard, “He’s turning into a snake, a vicious serpent that is squeezing all the life out of me.” Then, it said, “I’m cold. Hold me. Tighter. Yes, like that. That’s what I like.”
I tried in vain to follow that familiar voice. I looked to the ground, following steps that took an improbable path. When I looked back, the path was gone and I wondered to myself, how the hell did I get here? I was lost. It took me hours to find my way back. When I finally did, Jennifer was seated inside the lodge where the party was, alone, crying into the cake that she had made for me. The candles were burnt right down to the cake, wax surrounded the entire top portion. When I asked her where she was, she said she was in the kitchen the whole time. She said the staff let her use it to make my cake. It was my birthday, after all.
I made a beeline for the shore when it finally came into sight. I never thought I’d see it. I felt like I’d been running for days. I forgot all about why I was headed for the States or the circumstances that lead to that desperate attempt to flee. Perhaps I was running to something rather than running from something. Perhaps a new start was in order, a new country that would give me another chance, a new lease on life. Perhaps this large land would get me. Someone would get me. Delirious, parched and confused under a cloud of paranoia and fear, I made my way up the rocky shore until I collapsed. But I was surrounded. They must have informed the other side.
Jennifer never got me. Not really. Now, I can’t even find her. The last time I recall seeing her was at the zoo. We both loved animals but that’s where the similarities ended. At one time our interests overlapped but not now. I wanted to visit the reptiles, the lions, the tigers. She had recently become extremely interested in birds. Birds! “Why go to the zoo to look at birds?” I asked. “I love their colours,” she said. “Colours! You can see colours everywhere. We are at a zoo; let’s take advantage.” “I am,” she said. “The colours on these birds are like no others. They are iridescent. They change shades and tones when they move, when you move, or when the sun peaks out from behind a cloud. It’s mystical. I am in love with the transformation of their plumed bodies. I am in love with change.”
This scared the shit out of me. I didn’t like the way that sounded at all. I watched her walk away from me as she drifted towards the avian section of the zoo. I swear she drifted so much and so far from me that she took flight. I tried to follow, but again, my legs would fail me. They moved but I would not. When I looked down at them, I noticed for the first time that they were going in slow motion. I hadn’t really been moving at all.
I must have been moving a bit because suddenly I was in front of the reptile cage, the Old World python snuggling with what appeared to be a bunny rabbit. It wrapped its thick, scaly, muscularly contorting body — a movement that Jennifer used to perform on me during carnal moments — around the furry mammal in a loving manner. In a manner that I craved to do with Jennifer. I do want to be the snake. I tried calling out to her so she could witness this beautiful display of affection. I thought she would especially like to watch this seeing as rabbits are her favourite animals, next to her sudden interest in birds. But when I tried calling out, I couldn’t get my voice to work properly. I tried again and again. But it was no use. It was as though my voice was merely the sound of the wind travelling through the forest. It was eery, mystical, beautiful, but it made no sense. Standing in the same spot, feeling like I was on a treadmill, or that a carousel of images was passing before me, I witnessed the hungry snake devour the fortunate bunny as a forest appeared behind them instead of a cold metal cage. Then, the forest overtook the animals and I was alone in the woods — just me and the trees, I heard the wind again and with it the voices that spoke. I heard a woman’s voice calling out to a man. But this man wasn’t me. I so wanted her voice to be directed at me. But it wasn’t meant to be. It spoke to another. Then, I heard a voice behind me. It whispered in my ear. “Why won’t you look at me?” it asked. It was Jennifer. But I couldn’t look at her. The snake was back. It was consuming another rabbit. Two rabbits. It ate a third. Then, it moved on into the forest. It climbed a tree where it found some birds, beatific birds of the most beautiful colours. I had never seen such iridescent colouring before. They cascaded all around the serpent, trying to smother the snake with their beauty. Jennifer was right. Their colourfully plumed bodies really were spectacular. But it was a trick. I was duped. The serpent too was almost fooled. It gazed at the birds all around him. He was mesmerised. Even though he was starving, he merely watched, his natural, predatory instincts beguiled by the stunning beauty of the cunning prey. The voice behind me moved forward. It entered the birds. Its voice was angrier this time, less patient. It was no longer beatific or beautiful. Through the birds it said, “I don’t love you anymore. I’m sorry. It’s over.”
I didn’t understand what the birds were saying to me, for they were only birds. I didn’t speak bird. But they were magnificent. One in particular took my breath away. Its lustrous colours so much more vibrant than the others. It continued to change its shades and tones in front of me. This scared me. I didn’t want all that much change. Yet, I still wanted to possess it. Greedily, I reached for it. I hoped I could stop it from changing — to keep it the last colour I saw it wearing, a brilliant canary plumage mixed with a deep lake blue that would have made both the sky and ocean jealous. I held on tight, contorting and constricting with all my might. It shivered as though cold. It turned white like a frozen pond. I held on for dear life; I held on for all the love I had in all my body. I held on for her.
In a dreamlike state, I watched the wiser snake as it devoured the beautiful little bird. It was no longer hungry afterwards. Its appetite suppressed, its desires satiated, it took on all the colours of the most spectacular of birds. Once again, there was no blood. No mess.
As I watched the not so merry band of bulls snaking their way to me down the rocks, a flock of noisy gulls overhead, I imagined they had guns. This thought, in turn, gave me a gun. It worked! Desperate, exhausted, frustrated and afraid, I began shooting. I prayed that the gun would work. I imagined every moment so that if I awoke the next day I would write this all down with the pen and paper which lay next to my bed. I prayed that I would finally be published. I prayed I could write, that I was in fact a good writer despite what the agents, the critics, the publishers, the editors said. What they all said. I am, after all, not a violent person. I am a writer. It’s what I do. I hope the bulls on this new land will give me a chance — give me a fresh start. I hope the land really is warmer over here. I hope they like snakes. Now, if only I could find my misplaced gun, I might just get out of this mess I have found myself in once again. I hope this time it works. I am so tired of misfiring.