On A Blade's Edge

Was I just imagining it? The distinct cracking sound. Or more accurately, a crunching, which made the hairs on my arm rise. The memory, even distant, had cavorted with my cells until it became a part of me. Reminding me how I had read somewhere that trauma can actually leave a chemical mark within your genes, altering its expression on future generations.

When, if I have children, would they flinch at the sight of a frozen pond? Would they ask for beverages sans ice, knowing a distinct chill would crawl up their spine with the crack of an ice cube.

I flood my synapses with happy memories. The lacing of skates, the warmth of coco against chilled cheeks. Mismatched yarn mittens even force my lips into a smile. But beneath it all, never far away, lurks what I long to forget.

Perhaps relating the story for what feels like the hundredth time will somehow appease the fear. One final offering to tide it over. But I know, like any blackmailer, it will never be satiated.

The day started out grey with the promise of sun to come. The air had the perfect bite to it. A slight sting against your cheeks, providing one with that perfect flush. The unseen ice crystals hovering in the air, eliciting a twinkle in one's eye.

It wasn’t the beginning of the season. With the warnings to stay off the pond. It was well into winter. The days maintaining a frostiness which bade away any speculation of danger. But isn’t that when danger liked to show off most, when one least expected it?

My skates had recently been sharpened. The edge of which I had danced upon many times before. I remember looking at my reflection within the gleaming metal prior to placing them on my feet. The distortion fascinated me. A person I could hardly recognize as myself then and even more so now. Pieces, fragments, caught within its thin parameter.

I pulled the laces snug like one of those supportive hugs. You know, the ones where the person holds on giving that extra squeeze as though they may be trying to somehow reach your soul. As a child, I used to complain about how tight the laces needed to be. And the hugs as well, in all honesty.

The first glide onto the ice was sheer bliss. The moment where you feel you are doing exactly what you are meant to. I would never be a professional within this sport, but unlike the hugs that could never reach my soul, ice dancing always did. Always had. Maybe always would.

Everything became a blur as I cascaded over the surface, not polished to perfection but never beyond skateable. I probably did the imagined routine in my head, on that frozen pond so many times that my muscles could probably remember the exact movement even after all these years. The music playing in my mind further drowned out all around me. Was that the mistake I made? Allowing the music in my mind to be the only thing I heard?

I cannot say if I could have even heard the initial crack, nor if it had happened before I had arrived. My toepick suddenly latched onto an uneven edge, throwing me to the cold surface. My body used to such maneuvers curled in a way that made the initial shock more of a bounce. I felt my temple strike the ice and my vision blurred into blackness.

A distinct cracking below my right ear brought me to a level of consciousness. Not the first crack, but a spiderweb of cracks. Too late to register the danger. The ice shifted to draw me into its darkness. I, its unsuspecting victim.

My muscles were too stiff from the fall or having lain on the ice for however long. My initial shift only made the crack/crunch of the pond louder. My body hardly registered the water seeping into my clothes, but my lips definitely tasted it.

I imagine the scene in my head from an outside perspective, like a curled fairy tale character being confined to a watery grave. What I had not accounted for as the ice finally gave way was hearing a shout hover in the air.

From there, the blackness descends and I do not remember a thing beyond the sound of the ice even after I awoke in hospital many days later. But my mind imagines it all the same. The tricks it likes to play. The things it likes to whisper within its hallowed recesses.

I was the first in the water and subsequently, the only one to come out. A neighbour had caught my prostrate form upon the ice just as I had begun to submerge beneath the surface. A neighbour I had hardly known, hardly cared to know. One I would scoff at internally for wearing the same pom pom adorned multi coloured hat. A hat, I found out, had been knitted by their once pregnant daughter. Letters to which I have written and never sent, letters asking for forgiveness at having even thought such terrible things.

The neighbour had rushed to my aid, plunged in and located me. And with what was heralded as pure luck, foisted me back onto solid ice before succumbing to the bitter cold and ice fingers of the pond. A hero, worthy of a better damsel to have rescued.

I’ve brought myself back after having received something in the mail. Hoping, knowing how terrified I would feel. The pond is exactly as I remember it. The day is eerily the same. But there are no skates and the person who wore them feels like they no longer exist. My cheeks sting from the crisp air as it bites down on the tears streaking down my face.

Being drawn back to the pond, telling my story once more feels bigger than me. Like I was always meant to come back here. Like the pond has been waiting for me; it’s chosen victim. I focus on the yarn I roll between my fingers, running over an intermittent pom pom as I slide my booted foot on the ice.