False Expectations

• Tegan Van Rijn
• Short Story
• 2010

He looked out across the frozen lake, the ice glistening in the slivers of moonlight and the trees decorating the lakes edge hanging low with the heavy burden of the snow, as if hunching their shoulders to ward off a cold breath of air. He gazed out, past the obscuring trees, to let his eyes trace invisible lines along the snow capped mountain range. He remembered when they used to hold such mystery for him as a young child, as the sun would sink behind it like a slowly closing eye and cast beautiful and serene hues across the endless expanse of sky. How long ago had that been? Years it seemed. But as that small child he once was, time had escaped him, and the journey could have been merely months in his now mature eyes.

Tonight was like all the rest, cold, misty and grey and it seemed as though his life would always be at the mercy of greyscale. Against this bleak backdrop, the boy knew he became something of an apparition, a lithe boy so pale taking steps so silent he might as well have been part of the ether. Drained of all colour, washed of all life, he felt just as faded.

It was the sight of the usurper that drew his eye. He stopped and carefully watched the woman standing in front of a memorial stone. This particular constant was alien in this territory. His territory. He had never noticed that memorial stone before. Curiosity took hold of him with vicious brutality and he found himself walking over to the figure at the memorial stone, his steps unheard on the slick, hardened water of the lakes surface.

As he approached the woman she stiffened and turned sharply, bright eyes searching for the presence encroaching in on her, before turning back to the memorial stone, ignoring the boy. He walked closer until he was standing right next to the woman.
“A bit of a cold night to be out,” he said delicately.
She didn’t answer. If he didn’t feel sorry for her he would have been offended by her discourtesy.
“I’m sorry to disturb you.”
Still no answer. He was trying hard not to get angry at her blatant rudeness but his anger got the better of him.

He was still gentle as he moved to place his hand on the woman’s shoulder but to the boys horror his hand went straight through her. He was seeing a ghost. No wonder she couldn’t see or hear him. But a faint chill trickled down his spine as the woman knelt down and dusted the snow from the top of the memorial stone. Who could this ghost be mourning? He looked down at the memorial stone and felt his stomach lurch. His hands began to shake and his breaths became laboured, if he was breathing at all. The letters etched into the sleek surface of the memorial stone dealt him a brutal blow. His own name was something he never expected to see.