My Blue-Eyed Boy

She stared at the piece of paper, its blankness shouting a challenge to her mind that she could no longer ignore. Almost without conscious thought, she reached out, picked up a pen and began to write.

"We ran hand-in-hand, Stephen and I, the snow giving way beneath our feet with a delightfully squeaky crunch. We moved with the freedom of indestructible youth, with no thought beyond wringing maximal enjoyment from the present moment. Our destination was the pond we had discovered in summer, when a tiny trickle of stagnant water barely muddied its depths. We monitored it through autumn, when fat raindrops began to give it shape and form, a deep mirrored circle of water perfect for skipping stones and splashing at the banks. As winter came, we eagerly assessed it for the ice that slowly - too slowly for our childish impatience - infringed upon the surface of the pond. Today we raced towards the woods, hoping that finally we might be able to venture onto the frozen pond. We hadn’t asked our parents for permission. I think we knew they would disapprove of our excursion, and we didn't care to have their caution impinging upon our fun.

We tracked between leafless trees, twigs crackling underneath our feet. Our breath puffed in frosty clouds before us as we made our way to the pond we thought of as our own. Did some part of me realise, as we sat on a tree root and caught our breath, what was about to happen? I think not, otherwise I would have grabbed Stephen's hand and pulled him away from that place, away from the memory that continues to haunt my sleeping and waking moments. Instead, oblivious, I stood and trotted over to the pond, beckoning impatiently for Stephen to join me.

The ice looked hard and thick at the edges. I slid out a cautious foot and it held firm. I gave a crow of delight and moved onto the pond, sliding delightedly around the circumference. Stephen, bolder than I and witness to my escapades, cried out for me to look at him. He took a run up at the banks, and then jumped and slid across the ice, executing a half turn as he slowed at the end to stand near the centre of the pond. I mockingly slow-clapped as he bowed to an imaginary cheering audience, and he pulled his glove off and threw it at me. I laughed and turned away.

I don't remember what I heard first, the cracking of the ice or Stephen's startled cry. Whatever it was, it made me spin abruptly around and look towards my friend. He was still standing in the middle of the pond, a spider web of cracks in the ice radiating out from his feet. Too terrified to move, he looked at me, mute pleading in his blue eyes. I started to slide out towards him, but that hideous cracking sound echoed through the air once again, and I froze in place. The pond was deep in the middle, and I couldn't swim. I stood motionless, too afraid to save my friend. Finding his voice, he called my name, begged me to help him, fear filling his eyes.

We had been best friends since we were old enough to walk, but in that moment of Stephen’s direst need, I stood and watched and did nothing. I watched as the ice finally gave way beneath him, plunging him into the icy waters below. I watched as he struggled to the surface, clawing and scrabbling at the slippery ice, and I watched as he sank back down, dragged under and weighed down by the sodden layers of his winter clothing. I watched as the water's surface stilled, returning to that black mirror glaze concealing the tragedy happening beneath. I stared for what seemed like forever at the place where my friend had stood.

A branch broke overhead, succumbing to its burden of snow, and the sound broke me from my reverie. I could feel that I had done something terribly wrong. Stephen would never have been out here were it not for my urging. I was the one who had wanted to sneak out of our respective homes that morning and come to the pond. An unnamed fear drove me home, fleeing through the woods and the snow, a guilty shadow retreating from her deed. Back in my house, back in my bedroom I threw on my pyjamas and stuffed my clothes into a drawer. I crawled onto my bed and hid, huddling under the blankets as I desperately tried to create a space where the events of the morning had never happened.

Stephen’s parents raised the alarm later that morning when they checked his bed and found it empty. I spent the day huddled inside, mute when my parents asked me if I knew where Stephen might be. They assumed I was overwhelmed by the news of my missing friend and forbore to press me. While I hid from my guilt, others were out searching. Eventually some moved into the wood and found the frozen pond with the broken ice, and Stephen’s glove lying crumpled on the bank. They brought in specialists, who searched the pond and found my friend’s body.

Stephen's funeral followed a week after the recovery of his body. I remained reticent, and my parents didn't push me to speak. They took me to the funeral, and I stared at the casket, seeing Stephen's blue eyes open inside, looking at me, fearful and pleading.

Stephen's parents moved away not long afterwards, which, in my selfishness, I was truly thankful for. Each time I saw them after Stephen’s death, I anticipated the accusation in their faces and the words that would come from them, revealing my guilt. I started hiding when I saw them coming. Now I can reflect and realise that they probably thought I was a child struggling to come to terms with the death of my friend, and avoiding them due to grief rather than guilt.

Most of our friends seemed to move on from Stephen’s death in time. Not me. He had begged me to save him, and I had done nothing. He wouldn’t have even been at the pond that morning if it hadn’t been for me. Even though I was eventually able to put on a good front, it felt like Stephen’s pleading gaze was following me everywhere. Every time I saw someone with the same striking blue eyes I felt like I was looking at Stephen again, as he stood on the breaking ice, moments away from plunging to his death.

Nevertheless, to all outwards appearances, I was succeeding in life, albeit modestly. I finished primary school, then secondary school, and went to university. I became an accountant; perhaps a somewhat uninspiring choice in some ways, but the numbers made me feel safe. I could control them and manipulate them in satisfying ways, and they never made me question what kind of person I really was.

Romance had never figured large in my life. There had been a few interested glances and flirtations during my university years, but I never lasted long in relationships. I never felt like I could be completely honest and open with a partner when the secret of Stephen’s death hung over me. Then I met Chris, with brown eyes just like my own. He could make me laugh and forget for a while that my past still haunted me. And although I could not reconcile it with the person I knew I was, he cared deeply for me. As for my part, I can honestly say that I did love Chris, though not as completely as idealism would demand. But it was sufficient, and being with him dispersed the demons for a time. When Chris proposed, I said yes. Had I known what our marriage would bring, I would have run then, just as I fled from the frozen pond long ago.

We’d been married for almost three years when Luke was born. It was an easy, almost textbook pregnancy; no morning sickness, no swollen feet, no complications. When the time came, we proceeded to hospital in an orderly fashion, and Luke was born conventionally later that same day. The moment I looked into my son’s grey eyes, I fell more deeply in love than I ever had before. I was overwhelmed with the gift of this tiny person, and the privilege I had in caring for him.

For a while, everything was good. My parents were there to help when Chris had to go back to work, and I settled down into a comfortable and fulfilling routine, undisturbed until Luke was close to three months old. That day, I’d given him a bath and was about to settle down with him for a feed. He was wide awake, and I smiled down at my baby. He stared up at me with blue eyes – Stephen’s eyes. I hadn’t noticed them changing until now, so subtle had it been. It took everything I had to not reflexively push my baby away from me. Breathing fast, I forced myself to move calmly and place Luke down on the floor before walking away. He started to cry, but I ignored him and paced a loop between the loungeroom where he lay, the kitchen, and the dining area.

I don’t know how long I paced, but Luke’s cries were persisting when I finally felt able to come back to him. I took a deep breath, picked up my son and sat down on the lounge. Without looking at him, I put him to my breast and nursed him, his cries quieting and giving way to contented suckling noises.

The next week was a waking nightmare. I could barely stand to look at my own child, to see Stephen’s accusing gaze through his eyes. A part of me knew it was crazy, but I started to feel as though Stephen had come back through Luke to punish me for his death all those years before. It got to the point where Chris noticed that something was wrong, but I fobbed him off with excuses about being tired.

One afternoon I was bathing Luke shortly before Chris was due home from work. As I washed his chubby pink body, supporting him with my arm around his shoulders, he turned his head and looked at me, his gaze pinning me in place. I stared down at my son’s blue eyes, and suddenly I was back at that frozen pond, feeling Stephen’s fear and rising terror as the ice cracked beneath his feet, as it gave way and he fell into the freezing water. I saw his hands as they clawed futilely at the slippery ice, watched as he lost grip and slid backwards, his head disappearing under the water. I stood, and watched, and once again did nothing to save my friend.

I couldn’t take it anymore. I stood abruptly and ran out of the bathroom, down the hall and out of the front door. I didn’t know where I was going, only that I had to get away. I ran until my legs burned and my lungs ached. Then I curled into a ball on the ground where I was and tried to shut out the world around me. Even the repeated frantic ringing of my mobile phone failed to rouse me fully from my stupor.”

She paused, then continued to write,

“They’re looking after me here. I have a pleasant room overlooking the garden, and every day they come and talk to me about what happened. I know they’re trying to work out why I ran, why I left Luke in the bath alone, left Chris to find his lifeless body when he came home from work. I can answer them only by writing this down, my confession, finally telling the truth.

Maybe now, he will stop looking at me.”