The frozen lake cracked beneath her feet. She is unfazed, not bothered by the impending risk, as this is her plan all along - one last roll of the dice, one last stroll on the ice, letting God decide for her if her turmoil ends in the waters, or living on as a permanently damaged belle. The latter brings about a bout of intense nausea inside Missy, and she stomps on the ice to wrestle the decision making back into her own hands. She is elated that she has found this burst of clarity to desire a definitive closure, and she stomped the ice again, only to pause when the picturesque auburn tinged scenery in front of her reminded her of a crime scene photo she has tried very hard to forget. People say true lovers would subconsciously copy the behaviours of each other, and right now, under the morning sun, Missy has realized she had subconsciously chosen to walk down a path where Claire once trodden; bathing in this heartwarming ideation, she felt love again. 


Missy drops the whisky bottle as she manifests falling back into the passionate embrace of Claire in the afterlife. Of all the vices a human being can endure, falling in love with someone whose basement is packed to the brim with tucked away emotional traumas has been the one that will finally end Missy’s life. As the spider web cracks forms underneath her feet, she wasn’t thinking of what life could have been with a more beautiful partner that has a more ‘palatable’ past if she have just toughed out the remaining stages of grief; she has all the mental skills required to paint this speculative picture, but at this moment her mind is exclusively painting pictures of her future where Claire’s absence has burnt an unfathomable omnipresent smudge. No one is supposed to leave the world behind before 40, but since Claire has already opened the door to this avenue, Missy couldn’t find any counter to not follow her, even as the Higher Powers tried to wake her up with the heavy snow slapping hard across her face; she never wavered from the will to rebel against Their will to savour precious life, a freak occurrence that is Divine; life, something that trillions of subatomic combinations across the universe weren’t able to resolve, something that is a product of rolling the dice a gazillion gazillion gazillion times, meant nothing to her, because of this one person, one person that statistically speaking, has a few hundred doppelgangers across the English speaking world. On this frozen lake, what mattered to Missy aren’t concepts like the uncertainty principle where things could always take a turn to be more upbeat, what mattered emotionally are her lived experiences, being a spoilt middle class blondie and failed DJ-turned-record store slave, she doesn’t have the capabilities to understand life through advanced physics, her life is only defined by what her body had been intimate with, what her heart had beaten for, what person had made her blood cells excite the amygdala hippocampus. No one in school or college or TikToks taught her about the crevices of grief. So now, Missy just wants to fall back into the spider web of allure that Claire has once spat out. 


The first months of grieving aren't supposed to hurt like this, Missy thought to herself, the first stage is supposed to be a period of disbelief and a swirling blur tinged with a vague sense of sadness. Yet piercing through all the Coke numbness, K-holes and MXXX euphoria, is the bone crushing fact that Claire is forever gone, no amends, no take backs, no reconciliations; in the brief moments when one line ends and the upcoming line is crushed and prepared and neatly swept into form, Claire’s face will always sneak into Missy’s heart and bore the Claire shaped hole a little deeper until it is halted by the bitterness of the white/pink/orange powders as they flow down the nasal stream; or in the brief moment when Missy’s hand touches the dealer’s during the baggie hand-off, she is reminded of the warmth and affection that burnt a loving seal onto the skin when Claire held her hand. Four more stages to go in this grief-a-thon, and if the ice doesn’t break soon, she is going to deplete the stockpile of hard drugs in Brooklyn.


When Claire left Missy without any proper goodbye last November, it was as sudden as a malfunctioning brake line - something that one takes for granted is going to run smoothly, but foiled by a minor fault in the hydraulic fittings, results in a fatal crash; only this time, instead of fishing out a rusted used car, the item fished out from the lake is the lifeless body of Claire. It was no accident, no murder, just a final curtain call from Claire; there were no skid marks, no abandoned canoe, no sandals left behind on the lakeside; a one act play from the producer-director-actor herself, wearing a tailored and crafted costume, with impeccable waterproof makeup, fully embodying the role of an anonymous martyr of a doomed patriarchy, choosing to drown on her own terms, in an exotic sounding land, Saratoga, the colourful surroundings diminishing the dreariness of her death. 


It was ten days after Missy reported Claire missing when the Threads feed directed her to a news post of a mystery corpse being recovered from the water. The police haven't called yet, which is understandable, as Missy wasn’t a family member, there were no last written note addressed to her, there was no urgency to take a probably wayward love affair seriously, when there are actual families who are desperately seeking for missing loved ones. Getting notified of her death through a cold emotionless screen instead of a human voice initially made Missy felt she can get over it ASAP over quick hookups with the plethora of apps and her fluid sexuality on tap, but a stimulated clit doesn’t equate to memory erasure; intimacy and longing runs on separate circuits in the brain, and when longing runs in a circuit that seemed to be powered by a perpetual energy source, all she can do is to mask this feeling.


It is always a bad idea to make a New Year’s Resolution when there are a few drops of acid on your tongue, and stomach acid ready to burst out of your chest. Missy wanted to replicate what Claire had choreographed for her last moments and found the nearest body of water, but she chose the wrong month and the wrong latitude, instead of drowning like an exquisite Medieval princess in a Renaissance painting just like Claire, Missy is just reduced to a squandering junkie, a splatter of gutter-bound paint too yucky to scrap into the boundaries of post-modernist art. 


“What have I become, my sweetest Claire…” Sings Trent, as the night goes away, in the end. Another stomp on the ice, as the sun rises a few degrees higher. 


Thud.


Missy slips on the ice, and right into black hole Claireturi Griefiticaas, her body hits the ice, she hurt herself today; not to see if she still feels, but just a natural response when the body purges toxins from the body and the acid induced fantasy of rejoining a lost loved one in Hades comes to an end. No heavenly trumpets from little plump angels to welcome her, nor sulfur melting infernos, just impersonal, sodium chloride infused ice to welcome her face as Missy eyes slowly open. 


“Hey you, fuck off! I have had enough of you drunk wankers, I’m calling the cops next time.” Shouts the custodian.  


Words that echo in my ears as I felt my body being dragged across the spiky ice and the visuals on my retina morph from colourful fractals into pale green grass. 


“Bitch, I’m sending your picture to Prospect Park security. You’re done, you’re never coming back. You’re lucky you’re a broad, otherwise your fucking ass will be warming up in the police ca…”


I never caught the tail end of that rant as I use all my might to sit up and prepare to exit this unpleasant exchange. My ears are just filled with the white noise of the billowing winds as I stood up and left the elderly janitor behind, not shamed by his derogatory words at all. Fuck it if I am not allowed back to Prospect Park, it’s such an insignificant place if I can no longer come here with Claire in my arms anyways. 


Wait what? 


Had I taken Claire here to make out after dinner?


Shit, I am not supposed to recall the times when I fingered her on a bench park here. She’s gone, fuck, she’s gone, fuck, where is my bullet, I need a bump before I taxi home. I fumble through my clutch, patience, I feel tissues, keys, chapstick, bullet…OK, I feel more in touch with reality now, but I still need to make my way to Ocean Ave, I live on this street, so it’s just a simple straight shot to my home, fuck, why am I still seeing so many trees… One foot before the other, I keep reminding myself, as my mind blacks out again.


It’s a marvel what the human body can accomplish, even with 80% of the brain cells dormant. Imagine if you open your laptop and limit the CPU to 20%, you’ll end up in a boot loop without a single glimpse of the OS. The human brain, however, can guide itself home, get off a taxi, walk up stairs, lock the door, complete minute tasks like stowing away shoes and keys, before going into a blue screen on the sofa. The brain can execute tasks in the most adverse conditions, but it doesn’t mean helping me avoid adverse emotions.


I woke up on the sofa an hour or two later drenched in sweat, because I am too fucked up to take off my winter coat. I go through the motions of my post night out routine - I feel myself for any bruises or injury, I sigh at the sight of my torn stockings, I burp to gauge how upset my stomach is, okay, manageable, no need for gagging. Another bump, another hour to go before work where I can compartmentalize my sorrow and pretend there is normalcy in my fucked up life by being a record store bitch. It always amazes me when I play the darkest sounding industrial records in-store and still have sales. As I stood up to change, a ray of sunshine lit up some words I scribbled on the notepad.


I have made my life impossible

There’s no turning back, I cannot reset

Arrows slash my heart unstoppable

Memories I relive, I cannot forget


There must be ways to turn back the time

Give me a grimlore I’ll sacrifice

Love is a crime

Where is the point when memories don’t shine

Show me a crossroad and I’ll oblige 


Show me the witch and let her cook my heart

Show me the witch and let her cook my heart


Can we roll the dice once more

Can we roll the dice once more


Please teach me how to live with endless regret

Release me from this life I’ll never get back


Wow, did I write this pale imitation of goth lyrics before or after the ice rink misadventure, most likely before, otherwise I wouldn’t have pulled that shitty stunt. I was brushing my teeth when I received a text from Howard. A text I dreaded for days.