Under the seemingly infinite darkness of the northern night sky, Dagny imagines iridescent shades of green and purple filling up the emptiness. Glowing color—a big "fuck you" to the void. Half of her wishes for something, anything to take up that space: stars, a comet, maybe a U.F.O…
The other half wishes it would swallow her up.
Looking out her bedroom window, she takes one more mental snapshot for the evening before walking back towards her bed. Her suitcase is haphazardly spread open across her sheets; items strewn everywhere like debris after a storm. A sort of metaphor for her life as of late.
She's been in Iceland for far too long. Her nomadic tendencies nag at her constantly, gnawing on her brain and whining in her ear. They keep her up at night, packing and unpacking, so that she's ready to disappear at a moment's notice. Late into the A.M., Dagny usually checks her text messages and emails, debating whether she should forget this whole treasure hunt and book the next flight out of Reykjavik. She never does—she supposes that Magnus's whole "disappearance" thing is holding her interest.
Or maybe she's punishing herself for jumping the gun too often in the past.
Tonight she follows the same routine, except this time she can't even make it past the text messages. She knows that this country has done a number on her mental state, but it's not until she scrolls through her ex-wife's messages that she really begins to hurt. The old conversations (if one could be so generous as to label Alicia's unanswered texts a conversation), for whatever reason, cleave her like a knife. Not all at once, but in intermittent hacks, as if from a dull axe.
Dagny likes to think of herself as immune to the spectrum of human emotion, but the more she surveys the massive walls of text, the larger the lump in her throat becomes. The last few really do her in.
Alicia (10:05) – just answer me, dammit
Alicia (10:07) - why do you make this so hard on yourself
Alicia (10:21) – forget it. call me when you learn how to converse like an actual human being
Unable to read anymore, she hops in the shower, hoping to wash away whatever goosebumps she's getting on her skin. Maybe…maybe she's cold. Maybe it'd be better to scorch them. She turns the water temperature up so hot that it scalds her, leaving her skin a mottled red. Still, she doesn't move. She stands underneath the burning droplets, eyes closed and chin pointed up towards the showerhead, seeking warmth.
She'd survived. As she told Soren, she always does. She'd come to Iceland expecting an escape and a profit, and sure, she'd only gotten one of those things so far, but she had gotten what she wanted. The real spectacle, she had come to find out, was the cold. Dagny had never been one for all four seasons, finding refuge in places where her personality wouldn't seem out of place with the ice and snow. The winter would cut at her skin and she would bite back. It was cold here, but she was colder.
To her, coldness was everything. It enveloped her in the same way the sea rocked Iceland to sleep. Dagny wishes she were an island, but she knows that over the years she has become frigid. Not an island, but an iceberg. She didn't have friends, and she knew that included the frigid feeling she'd cultivated. She'd lost focus, her eyes having frosted over. Her heart…she hated admitting it out loud. Her heart had collapsed in itself, much like an avalanche decimates a mountain. When she had finally pulled herself together, all the lights in the sky had disappeared.
The dark night follows her, even out here, even in the middle of nowhere, even where stars should be shining the brightest. The darkness hollows out the sky and opens up infinities that Dagny can watch but not touch. She watches the black sky in hopes of the light returning, like a constellation might travel all this way just for her. Disappointment washes over her features and freezes.
She'd survived. But at what cost?
She never cries. Especially not in the shower. Crying feels like an admission of defeat, one that Dagny cannot bear to give. So it's against her will when the first few tears escape her eyes. They meet like tributaries with larger water droplets, forming rivers that snake down her skin.
Frantically trying to wipe away what she can, she knows it's too late. She feels old memories thaw and drip from her eyes, pooling at her feet and watering flowers. Dagny tries to destroy them before they sprout, but they persevere, blooming even without sunlight, their blossoms dark and lush. Dagny can't believe her eyes. Weeds among flowers; a garden among a wasteland.
Dagny sinks to her knees, burning hot and crouching over thorns and thistles. The dull axe is replaced by countless jabs and pricks, drawing what she wishes was blood and not more tears. The rivers in her eyes gain momentum, eroding her away. She cries despite the lump in her throat that threatens to choke her. She sobs until her eyes are stinging with a feeling she can't describe. An eternity passes before one of her hands flounders towards the faucet and shuts the water off.
Must get out. The steam that erupts from her shower as she opens the curtains fogs up the mirrors. Dagny is glad that she can't see her pathetic reflection at a moment like this. Wrapping herself in a towel, she stumbles out of the bathroom and throws herself amongst the other unwanted items on her sheets. No getting dressed, no breathing, just waiting.
Her body is still wet, water soaking into the blankets while she shakes like a leaf. Dagny shivers, welcoming the cold once again, hoping and praying that it will numb the pain.
Foolish, she thinks. It was foolish of her to try and feel anything at all.
Closing her eyes, she allows herself to sink back into the black sea. Under the surface, the lights drift farther and farther off, like a distant city on the horizon. She'd seen so many of those disappear from her vision over the years. Dagny doesn't bother trying to say her goodbyes, even though she knows that it will be a miracle if she ever sees those lights again. Still holding her breath, she descends towards the ocean floor. Her chest caves in on itself, pressure building and crushing her insides.
Tomorrow she will wake up and see another day. That's inevitable, even if she finds it undesirable. She will wait for that teenage detective to find her business partner, reap the profits off his treasure, book a flight out of Iceland, and never return. It's a plan she has stuck to religiously. She must stick to her guns, all the while keeping to herself. The last thing she wants is for someone to try and reach out. Not that they could, anyway. She's too far gone.
Besides, even if they were somehow successful, they would no doubt catch the same sickness that Dagny has. Karma is a bitch, she deduces. How fitting that everything she touches becomes just as cold as she is.
As her exhaustion gets the better of her, Dagny watches the surface of the sea begin to frost, then freeze. What is she? Trapped? No, encompassed. Dagny is home here. Her skin still burns, but it is no longer from the heat. Her garden will wither and die, decomposing as quickly as it had emerged from the soil. Those text messages will remain unanswered, a testament in a book she must discard. Period, next chapter, indent.
Dagny is not happy (far from it), but she is no longer looking for light. Why bother searching when the darkness that is already here, has always been here first, keeps her company?
Submerged in her icy depths, the northern sky collapses onto the sea. She awaits sleep.
A/N: So. It's been a while, hasn't it?
I'd like to thank Zoe, aka The Madmadam, for her constant support. I'm sorry I didn't get this out as soon as I'd hoped, but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless. I'll make sure to keep writing and publishing, especially now that my writer's block is somewhat cured. Expect more in the near future, and I hope everyone's holidays are safe and sound.