A/N: I think that I'd better explain a little before I start the story. The first two chapters are fiction. They do not really happen. They are just things that COULD have happened. The italics are (mostly) speech. A lot of the sentences are fragments, and that was because I thought it worked better; they are thoughts, and thoughts are hardly ever full sentences. It's written as if it was translated from another language that removes the subject from the sentence (but still makes sense because of the verb).



Picture a girl, average in every way: she's medium height, average weight, brown-eyed. She's walking through the forest on her way to school. Feet on pavement, feet on earth, feet on red wooden bridge. She is crying. Stops to watch the ducks skitter across the ice. Or maybe they're swans?

She doesn't hear them. She doesn't want to see them. It wouldn't matter. They're just animals. Her breath form a face-like cloud in the crisp, cold, December air. Shivers tickle down her legs. She doesn't hear. Doesn't feel.

Drops her backpack to the ground and take out her phone. Call for help. 'Help.' Not real help. Click-dial-send.





She doesn't bother to leave a message. What would she say? She takes off her jacket. It's cold, numbingly so. She dials her own voicemail. Listens to the options. Presses four. Presses two. The machine tells her to record her new message after the beep.


She clears her throat and starts in a calm, deadpan voice. Uncaring. Unfeeling. Hello. You've reached a dead person. Please leave a message after the beep. Goodbye. I love you. That's why I'm doing this, but it's not your fault. Look in the pond.

She presses pound. Leaves it on the red wooden bridge. Leaves everything there.


She steps onto the ice. The ducks (or swans) squawk as the ice cracks beneath her feet. Cautious steps. Tiptoe. Tiptoe. Cautious steps, and for an unknown reason. Almost to the middle. So close.


With a sickeningly nightmarish sound, the ice splits. She falls through the self-made hole.

Above the ice, the duck-swan-birds are frantically flapping their wings. They don't understand. Someone walks by. He's smoking pot. Sees the phone, the jacket, the backpack. Takes it. Runs; doesn't know where the owner is. Doesn't see her. The wind shakes the trees, the children, screams for them to do something.

Under the ice, she's drowning. Her arms flail towards the surface. Eyes are wide open, begging, pleading for something. She screams silently. Is choking. On emotions. On memories. On wishes. On thoughts. On water.

Is dead.