Horrors of Us...

*This story was largely inspired by a story called “The Fountain of Youth” written by my coworker Myrra Arya, this summer at The Michigan Daily, The Statement. I aimed to mimic the structure and content of the piece, whilst still retaining my own original voice.*

 

The Man

The river was a rich green, thickened by moss and sea urchins and glazed over by layers of ice. I parted two tufts of moss with my thumb, stroking left and right. My hut laid on the precipice of the river, its reach requiring only a brief obstacle down a hill speckled with stone-carved steps. In my cocoon, I could not be seen by those on the river’s ends, and only when I crouched down, beneath the sticks that form my teepee, could I observe. Crouched was my usual position, a necessity for the type of work I perform. I’ve never cared much for standing, the visibility of the position leaving me with a raw, nauseating tingle. Nor have I cared for the highly respected stance of the criss-crossed seat, limbs spread wide as though there was all the space in the world. No, I’ll stick to crouching, thank you. 

 

It was 8:14am when the first person came down to the river. She was a woman, bland and small, accompanied by a husky. She wore a fur coat — similar in pattern to the sheddings of her dog — and a pair of thick gray boots. She approached the water, empty pail in hand. Upon closer inspection, the woman set down the pail and gripped the leash tighter. She stepped on the ice, hesitantly. Slowly. She leaned forward, looking at the trap in curiosity. I watched, satisfactorily, as she fell. First target of the day was a success.

​

The Boy

Mother is missing. I wasn’t supposed to find out yet, not until they decided how to tell me. But I overheard them deciding, and the phrasing they chose wasn’t their best option anyhow. So here I sit, on my charcoal comforter, frozen in shock. I stare out the window, entranced by the frozen pond beneath, watching the snow form into crystals as each one hits the ground. 

 

I get off my bed and press my ear to the creaking wooden floorboards. The faint whispers tell me that Mother went to fetch a pail of water for the bath this morning and never returned. She left the house around dawn, right after tending to the herbs in the garden. No one was able to wash themselves this morning, and now everyone is too afraid to leave. 

 

I miss Mother already, and man do I want a bath! If Grandmom and Grandpop aren’t brave enough to go out there and fetch the day’s water, I’ll just do it myself. And while I’m at it, I’m sure I can find Mother too. 

​

The Man

A boy comes flying onto the grass. He scrambles for a few beats before dusting himself off. I watch him as he settles on my least favorite position — standing — and wanders over to the river. The boy looks to be about 11 years of age, wearing football pajama pants and a hooded sweatshirt. He seems lost, as if he’s looking for something. Or someone?

 

The boy chooses a direction — left — and races into the woods. Not his wisest choice. I urge him to come closer. He will only make a small crack in the ice; It won’t be too hard to cover up, unlike that woman from earlier this morning.