The Lady of the Lake

Elvis once sang of love as a burning thing.

He was right, of course; it had been burning and bright and untamed. Like a wildfire, it had been all-consuming. Burning, burning, burning - love had warmed my cheeks and stolen breath from my lungs just as flame and smoke might have.

Laying atop a frozen pond, I blink against the brilliant winter sky. Between flashes of crisp blue and latticed lashes, memories fill my mind. Memories of my racing heart tripping over beats and electricity humming across my skin. Of a heady warmth that had pooled in my chest before trickling down to curling toes.

But memories are all they are.

Now, my heart thumps steadily in my chest, skipping nary a beat. My skin has long since numbed to the frigid air, kissed by languid snowflakes instead of smiling lips.

The smiling lips in question had once curved with great care around my name, Cora. He would say it with rapture, eyes smouldering. Cora, it had been his prayer in a church built from tangled sheets. Cora, Cora, Cora, he had sung and breathed and moaned.

My name had been a melody upon his tongue, the sweetest symphony of syllables. Until he had sighed the final note, and it had sounded wrong - out of tune. Cora, the song turned discordant in my ears, I met someone else.

With that, the heady warmth that had surged beneath my skin like a second pulse seized up.

He hadn't been able to look at me while he spoke, while that heady warmth drained from my body.

You said you loved me. It had been all I could muster - the words a strangled whisper from between chattering teeth.

Only then had he turned his gaze on me, grasping at my hand. I do love you, but not like that. Not anymore.

I'm not in love with you.

It was as if he had plucked my heart from my chest where it charred and crumbled like ash within his fingers.

Shock had settled over me and stilled my tongue.

And then he left.

The shock had subsided not long after, and heart-wrenching sadness had replaced it. I cried ugly sobs that had drowned me from the inside out, quelling the last of my lover's embers. But the sadness had not lasted long. Anger eventually reared its grotesque head, and the two emotions had warred within me - fighting for purchase, for a hold.

Naturally, anger had won out.

In its triumph, it had ravaged me, had me blazing anew with a darker sort of fire. You gave him everything the anger had bellowed. I gave him everything I had screamed back, my fists pummelling the pillow upon which he used to lay.

He had been a match, and I, kindling, had been all too ready to combust.

I had burned for him until there was almost nothing left.

After gorging itself on the remaining parts of me, the flames of anger had extinguished, and a yawning emptiness had since taken their place. I hadn't been sad to see the anger go. Hadn't been much of anything since it departed, if I'm honest—nothing except hollow and numb.

That's enough reminiscing. I shake my head as if I can shake the memories free from my skull.

The ice at my back has begun to soak through my jacket, and I wonder if I lay here long enough if it will splinter beneath me - if its waters will claim me as its own.

I wouldn't struggle; I haven't the energy. I would sink to the bottom of the pond, watching as the last of the air empties from my lungs - fleeing towards the surface in tiny clusters of crystalline bubbles.

The image of a watery grave is enough to rouse me, and I roll onto my side.

I notice someone by the edge of the pond from the corner of my eye, and I sit up startled. I thought I had been alone.

As I take in the Lady of the Lake with unblinking eyes, my pulse calms. Still alone, I reassure myself, a bark of nervous laughter catching on the heart still lodged in my throat. How could I have forgotten her? She has always been here, for as long as my town has. Perhaps longer.

The Lady of the Lake.

She is not a lady, but a statue—nor is it a lake, but a pond, though I imagine the Statue of the Pond didn't roll off the tongue quite as nicely.

I push myself to my feet and shuffle to where the Lady leans gracefully over the edge of the pond. I stand in front of her, and in silence, we stare at each other. Well, I stare at her while she stares beyond me - through me, her marble eyes fixed on something in the distance.

Her hand is frozen skyward - catching the falling snowflakes with marble fingers. I trace my fingers along her palm, marvelling at the detail of the tiny lines etched into her skin. Someone had taken their time carving her, lovingly sculpting each crease and curve of her, before abandoning her here. Alone at this pond, where she waits for them to return - Her fingers reaching after them forevermore.

I nod knowingly at her, empathizing with the statue before me.

We had both been forgotten - left to the mercy of the cold.

The Lady kneels, looking every bit an angel as wisps of grey clouds gather in the sky behind her like wings. A halo of snow collects atop her head, and beneath it, her stone brows draw together ever so slightly. My brows mirror hers as I wonder what she could have to be so perturbed about in this haven of snow and ice. I smooth a thumb over the ridge of confusion before trailing fingers over her lips, brushing their infinitesimal frown.

For a brief second, I envy her.

The sensation is a streak of hot that clangs noisily through my body - reverberating in my bones. It is so at odds with the emptiness I had grown accustomed to that it sets my teeth on edge.

I am envious of her stone heart - for statues cannot love, they cannot feel.

And for that brief second, I wish it were me - not her - that had been painstakingly hewn from marble.

"I wish we could trade places." The words take shape in puffs of frozen air between us, and as the clouds of my confession dissipate, the part of me that is green with jealousy seems to hold its breath - waiting.

It waits for the universe to grant my wish, for the Lady to suck air into lungs of newly formed flesh and blood as my own conceded to the vicelike grip of stone.

The waiting, however, is for naught. I feel a small flash of disappointment as only the wind howls in response to my declaration, coaxing up snow from the ground in flourishes of sparkling white before quieting once more.

My fingers fall from her face to hang back at my side, and the envy withers away. Forlorn, I have lamented over love and the lack thereof without knowing numbness as she does - I have only known a shadow of it.

I track her gaze, and together, we stare out at the frozen pond before us.

Weather permitting — the pond’s ice will gradually melt, and I know my iciness will eventually thaw as well.

Yes, the absence of burning love has left me cold - but I was still once aflame. Which is more than I can say for the Lady - she is condemned to an existence of true numbness. She will never know the highs or lows of life; the highs made ever sweeter and more precious by the latter.

Looking upon her face once more, I wish I could erase her plaintive expression and instead chisel her one of serenity.

Unravelling my scarf from around my neck, I loop it around hers - admiring the bright crimson against the milk of her stone skin.

While alone - she shouldn't have to be cold too.

I smile softly at the Lady of the Lake before stepping around her and walking towards the snow-laden trees to begin my trek home.