She wrung her fingers, slowly and with friction, against one another. Her breath was cold as she walked in the autumnal bitterness, sleepy snow settling into her dark, sweeping hair. Her visage was unreadable, like she was walking, moving, aware, and yet in a state of comatose. Her boots lightly thudded against the cold Coloradoan earth, the light of the sun fading as she went.
When she reached the end of the block, the streetlamps flickered on, lending a comforting yellow decadence to the roads and making the snow look even more miserable by contrast. Wendy Testaburger continued walking, until she reached a large, wooden and stone building down the road, its steeple peeping up into the shivery evening air. Low, soft light seeped out from the windows and underneath the door, like a hearth warming the world. The church was almost always open, something that Wendy found comforting: reliability.
The girl's quiet footsteps echoed as she walked up the three stone stairs to the immense wooden church doors, fastened with blackened metal. The left door was missing its enormous metal knocker, and the wood was becoming limp with the snowy humidity in some places.
The heavy doors opened with a slight, groaning creak. Wendy walked in, gazing up in awe, as she always did, at the magnificent architecture and glass scenes on the window panes opposite the entrance, right above the pulpit. To the left and right, candles flickered and sputtered in their dark stands, lighting the space. Lanterns burned in the corners as well, lending their own light so that the church was bathed in a holy glow.
Wendy carefully paced to the right, approaching a stand of white votive candles. She placed a quarter in the slot, on the honor system, and then delicately picked up an unlit candle and placed it to a burning one. Wendy's candle ignited and she closed her eyes, quiet and still. She felt herself rocking in a sea, a storm. She would wait it out, become a rock, rooted down by religion. Saved by the Lord. She opened her eyes.
Wendy held the candle within her stark palms for a moment longer, then tenderly nestled it into a holder on the stand, between the other flames. Then she moved to the rows, dark and wooden with carvings on either side, and sat in the Marsh's seats, in the middle of the second row to the left-hand side. Her eyes became hot and dewy and she held them shut tight as she leaned over in prayer, fingers lacing together.ÍŠ
It was a cold night in early spring, and in the shadows of darkness, four boys stealthily sprinted through the snow, creeping up towards the bushes dotting Stark's Pond. Breathless and sporting determined grins, they surrounded the edge of the water, where a low fog was simmering, and icy shards remained from winter.
Jackets, shirts, socks, shoes, jeans, and hats went flying, fluttering down into the pure, white snow. The boys stood almost-naked, looking around at one another and shivering uncontrollably. A large, heavy boy with a scowl on his face snapped at the other three, hands on his pudgy hips.
The others returned harsh words, indicating furiously towards the gentle, black-navy currents of the water. A blonde boy crossed his arms, his eyes closed self-righteously as he firmly shook his head, refusing to go in. His ribs were visible on his lean body, pale beneath the moonlight. After much arguing, he approached the very bank of the lake and tested it with his toes, yelping and drawing back almost instantly.
The other three laughed, to which the blonde boy swore, disgruntled, and gently shoved two of the boys forward, one with sleek, midnight-black hair, the other with a head of serpentine red curls. The boys cast each other a searching glance, then dipped their toes in the water as well, setting their jaws and trying to be men about it.
Finally, after much time had gone by, the four stood by the lake's edge and all took a step forth, shuddering as the glacial water crept up their ankles. They inched onward, slower and slower as the numbness settled in, chilling them to the bone.
The thickset boy clambered out with a great splash, his teeth chattering. The redhead made a remark up to him, to which the heavier boy quickly stumbled over to the pile of clothes, removed a large, orange jacket, and tossed it into the lake. Furiously, the other boy rushed over in a ditch attempt to rescue his source of warmth, to no real avail. In anger, he leaped out of Stark's Pond and wrestled with his companion, trying to shove the other back into the chilly water.
Meanwhile, the other two continued on, their white bodies contrasted against the black pull of the water. Grimaces on their faces and goose bumps lining their limbs, they pressed forward, deeper and deeper into the cold abyss.
Finally, the golden-haired boy stopped, shivering with his arms crossed. He spoke to his charcoal-haired counterpart, then quickly returned to the shore. The last remaining boy narrowed his azure eyes and struggled onward, fighting the all-encompassing cold.
From the shore, the other three cheered their friend on, who fought valiantly and was now up to his clavicles in frosty liquid. He reached a patch of ice floating in the water and reached out with his pale fingers to touch it, colder than even the water. Looking back over his shoulder one more time to the boys on dry land watching him, who seemed further away than ever, he took in a big gulp of air and dived in, engulfed in frigidness immediately.
The dare had been to swim to the middle of Stark's and back, so he clawed his way through the water, numbness about to overcome his body. Needing a breath of air, he poked his head back up, finding himself close to his goal, far away from the shore.
He headed back under, though the cold was pounding at his skull, permeating his brain, burning it with numbness. When the boy needed a breath again, he shot up towards the surface, only to find he was trapped beneath a sheath of ice, unable to reach the sweet, sweet air. Panicked, the dark-haired boy darted about beneath the ice, looking for a spot to come up. He opened his eyes, yet was unable to see anything in the black water beneath the ice. His world was dark and cold, a box of emptiness, constricting him with every second he lacked oxygen.
He fought, arms and legs extending their fullest lengths, searching for salvation from this icy deathtrap. Eventually, his limbs grew achingly tired, and he grasped upward in vain, fingers meeting formidable ice.
Back at the shore, his three friends intently stared at the lake's placid surface, waiting for him to come back up. In the next instant, the auburn boy was tearing through the miserable water, screaming, "Stan! Stan!"
Stan was beneath a deathly curtain, his lips turning blue, his palms lavender. His friend rushed towards the center of Stark's Pond, ignoring the cold. He met the ice and dove under, eyes open but unable to see a thing. Close behind him were the blonde and brunette, looks of deep concern overcoming their faces.
Stan was motionless, floating right beneath the ice. His friend came sprawling towards him, blind beneath the water and ice, hands feeling forward for any sign of Stan. Finger colliding with something, a face, the boy gave a tremendous tug, finding Stan's hand and propelling him in the water back towards the shore.
Now the blonde had dove under as well, to find a body being flung at him. He quickly received Stan and dragged him up, the other boy closely following, his curly hair a tangled mess as he took gasping breaths of air.
The four swam frantically towards the shore and pitched Stan down on the cold, dark green grass peeking beneath the snow. His deep blue eyes were closed, mouth parted slightly and body pale as the moon.
The redhead pounded on Stan's chest, growing more and more aggravated, more and more worried as his efforts seemed futile. Hot, salty tears stung the boy's eyes as he compressed Stan's chest, slung his lips over that of his unmoving friend and whispered air into his lungs, warm and frenzied.
The others stood solemnly by, terrified, watching Stan's pastel face remain motionless. Together, the blonde and the redhead lifted their friend, and the larger brunette boy walked behind Stan and wrapped his arms around the boy's middle, both hands pressed together at Stan's stomach. He heaved and drew in his arms, trying desperately to remove the water from the boy's lungs.
None of it was working, and the blonde boy sprinted feverishly back into the town to call for help, while the other two remained with their lifeless friend, crying softly against his bare chest.
She had to have something. Wendy needed that, needed something. She needed to believe in a Heaven, and that Stan was there, that there he was right up there, smiling down at her with his sweet, dopey, mischievous grin, cherubic face and glinting sapphire eyes. She needed something to keep her sane, keep her human as she wept and screamed and lived on in his absence through the months that followed, through the hours of not knowing, of feeling the coldness of loss wash over her, wishing that that God-awful lake had taken her, instead.
She needed sanctuary, she needed to know that Stan would be with her forever. She came to church, lit him a candle. She stayed silent in the pews, the soundlessness resonating around her against the warm, protecting walls of the place, so like Stan's arms, wrapped around her tender, fragile body. Wendy felt less empty as she sat here, less incomplete. She felt a togetherness, her and God, her and holiness and Heaven and Stan. Here, she could be in Stan's presence, feel him connected to her, tethered, somehow.
No place else felt safe. No place else could she find Stan.