Muddled Mess of Errs

A bird looking down would’ve seen a man wearing a bright green t-shirt, relaxing right in the middle of a giant frozen lake completely black in colour because of the unique water that laid beneath the ice.

There were no birds where he lived though.

He sat on a bright red chair with a steel glass in his hand. Next to him were 3 bottles neatly placed in a line with exactly 4 inches between them. On the other side was a bag with a single bright green shovel sticking out of it with flecks of the black snow stuck to it. In front of him were shards of glass we can assume from something he broke not that long ago, with a crack in the ice right below where his left foot was placed at that moment.

The lake was surrounded by beautiful mountains with black snow-covered peaks and it was these mountains that he was maybe admiring with a blank stare that shifted to a new one every 5 minutes.

He would look at one mountain get up turn his chair and start staring at the next one. All directions except one had been looked at. This one was clearly marked with footsteps that began right where the lake met the ground and then continued straight to a town far in the distance, each building in the town the same colour as his chair. The roofs of the buildings were covered in the same snow as well although you could see some losing more and more of theirs with every passing minute.

He picked up the first bottle in line labelled cranberry juice with the other two being watermelon and apple juice. The first one was half full while the other two were unopened.

He picked up the cranberry juice and poured some into his glass. He would drink a sip, stare at the juice inside the glass, trying to make the mountains steal his gaze away and failing. He would then pour it out till only a sip was left. He’d drink that and then switch his direction always avoiding the one marked with footsteps. He slowly made his way through the cranberry juice.

He held his last glass of cranberry juice tightly with the empty bottle in the other. From the corner of his eye, he saw the shovel tipping. He stopped the shovel from falling but in the process spilled the entire glass of juice, which immediately started freezing on the lake, slowly disappearing from sight till the red of the juice simply tinted the black ice.

His fist immediately clenched and he started stomping on the ice in anger, grunting with every stomp. He got up, picked up the shovel and swung it down on the chair with a loud yell escaping him. The yell never fully escaped, some of it stuck inside his throat just like the shovel was stuck floating less than an inch away from the chair. He stood up straight, took a deep breath in and then out, placed the shovel where it belonged and then sat in the chair again. He picked up the last two bottles and put them inside the bag, returning to his mountains with an empty glass in his hand.

He stared at the mountains for hours, forgetting to switch every 5 minutes. If he took a little while longer, he’d simply get up and switch. If it took him too long, he would do the same except this time he had his nails dug into his hand. This went on for 3 hrs in silence. The timing was wrong, only switching every 5 minutes half the time. After 3 hours, his nails finally broke his skin. The blood frustrated him further. He paced around the chair, his hands on his hips. He paced looking at the ice, with the bag constantly in his peripheral vision. He stepped away from the bag about to take a deep breath when he saw that he was still bleeding, when he looked down on his jumper he saw that the blood had stained it. He walked a swift straight line to the bag and grabbed the watermelon juice. He poured a glass, chugged it and then repeated this till he had run out. He only noticed he’d run out till there was no more left to pour. Looking at the empty bottle made his face contort in rage. He threw the bottle as far as he could, let out a complete yell and then started hitting the ice with the chair. He smashed its legs on the ice till they broke. The black ice below him was riddled with cracks. In one last huff, he kicked the bag; the bag fell and the shovel hit the ice.

The ice began to crack, and he knew what was about to happen, as he breathed in as much as he could before he fell into the black lake.

**

The hole filled with ripples was exactly where the chair previously was and still had the bag but no bottle of apple juice next to it. He knew how to swim but the cold water was too much. He broke the surface again and again trying to take larger breaths. He was trying to swim but couldn’t feel his hands. He could tell that the amount of time he was seeing the light was constantly decreasing compared to the time he was surrounded by darkness. He didn’t know when but eventually there was no difference between the two.

Unable to see now, he had no option. He took his numb hands and just started moving them the way he knew he should to swim. Every single stroke was harder to do than the last one. His last stroke hit the ice; he laughed in excitement as he frantically tried to find anything to grab onto to pull himself ahead. His laugh died down as his hands constantly hit the ice unable to pull himself up. Not once yet had he called out for help he thought to himself. He tried to yell for help but no sounds could come out, anger took over him again. His final jump, perhaps the one filled with the most rage out of anything he’d done today was just big enough for his hand to hit something wooden. Recognising it was the shovel, he grabbed it and smashed it into the ice. The shovel was stuck in the ice and he could finally pull himself out.

He laid there on the ice gasping for breath for what could’ve been 10 minutes, or what could’ve been an hour. His vision began to come back and the first thing he saw was his hand clutching the shovel. His hand was red thankfully not blue yet. He didn’t let go of the shovel for once, scared he’d fall again. When his breathing returned to normal, he got up and started packing anything that hadn’t fallen into the water. He noticed that the apple juice had. He went to pick it up but then left it there thinking it was probably for the best.

He pulled out a jacket from the bag, put it on and started walking back to the town, his home. When he got back, a man much older than him who looked exactly like him but about a foot shorter stood outside a red house, their red house.  He was taking a rest from shovelling the snow that had collected in their yard. He saw the man turning to greet him, and immediately put his cut hand in the pocket and covered the stain on the jumper with the jacket.

The old man asked rhetorically, “So back from your daily excursion?”

“Yeah.”, the young man replied.

“How many bottles?”

“2.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, why would I lie?”

“Hmm.”

They both stood in silence for a while until the man started shovelling again.

“Why are you wet?”

“I fell into the lake.”

“Can I see your bag?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because it is my bag.”

He walked over to him and snatched the bag off his shoulders. He took the shovel out, threw it on the ground and turned the bag upside down. 12 empty bottles of juice fell out.

“Are these all from today?”

The young man replied, “The last 4 days.”

“Are you sure?”

He didn’t reply.

“You can’t keep stealing our supply. I’ll lock you out of the warehouse if you pull this again”

“I’m sorry.”

“Whatever, ruin yourself, ruin our business, when we won’t have left anything to have, you’ll understand.”

“I’m sorry”

“Go puke it all out. You don’t deserve the juice.”

He starts walking towards the house.

“We make and sell 30000 bottles a week. How do my 12 bottles matter?”

The old man stopped shovelling, rolled his eyes and began again. Then he said, “You drinking 12 bottles isn’t what this is about, try not asking a dumb question again. Help me with the snow now. Start with the roof.”

“You know I can’t.”

“STOP COMPLAINING LIKE A CHILD.”

“I am not.’

“Who gives a shit if you got trapped under that snow when you were a kid. You’re 25 now, that was 19 years ago. Are you scared of getting trapped again?”

“No, it’s not about that.”

“WHAT IS IT ABOUT THEN!”

“I don’t know how to tell you; I just can’t bring myself to do it.”

“Fine! Useless. Go make some tea then.”

“Okay.”

He finally opens the door to the house. When he looked up there were 2 feet of black snow hanging from the ceiling as if about to fall at any moment.

The old man yells from behind him, “Do you see the snow again?”

“No.”

“There is no snow, how many times do I have to tell you?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Just go make the tea.”

He took a deep breath and walked timidly into the house. Scared that a footstep too loud or too hard would make the entire thing fall down. He closed the door behind him and walked slowly to the kitchen. He put on a kettle to boil some water. He stood looking at the snow, terrified to walk back out with the tea. He walked to his room, careful to not make a sound with every step, he changed his clothes, dried his air and put a band-aid on the cut. He walked to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. The middle shelf was filled with juices of 12 different flavours, every single kind they made.

Weirdly, he had no desire to drink any of them, he simply took the lone bottle of water from the bottom shelf and poured a glass of it.

He heard a loud thud behind him, when he turned around there was no snow left hanging, all of it had fallen. Almost as quickly as it had fallen, he saw it melt and turn into the black water.

The water was done boiling. He made the tea and put it on a tray to take it out to the old man. The water was far less intimidating to walk through. It didn’t feel cold when he stepped into it but he knew it was supposed to be, he just knew it. It was weirdly comforting.

He smiled hesitantly and carefully started making his way out again, trying not to trip. The door flew open with the old man standing in it. It startled the young man who dropped the tray.

The old man sighed heavily and said, “You can’t do anything.". He scuffed, rubbed his forehead as if in distress and continued, “I’m going to the café, the sweeper there is more competent than you could ever be.”

The young man stared at him as he left and then sighed himself. He picked up the tray and washed the kettle and the cup the tea was in. Then he made himself a cup. He took off his shoes and sat in a chair. His feet in the water cooled his entire body and mind down. He laid back and relaxed drinking the tea, quietly waddling his feet through the water, trying not to create too many ripples.

He splashed around a little water with his feet, smiled and whispered to himself, “Sorry.”  As if it was waiting to do so, the water immediately turned clear.