Have you ever felt fear?  I mean real fear.  Not the kind of fear you get when viewing a horror film.  Not the kind of adrenaline-driven fear that you get when the chainsaw-wielding masked guy pops out from the dilapidated barn, just when you thought things were going to be okay.  That isn’t real fear.  I should know: I’ve felt the fear that’s real, the gripping, enthralling, overtaking fear that grabs hold of your body, doesn’t let go, and freezes you.  Yeah, perhaps frigid coldness is the best parallel to fear I can draw.  But thinking about it a little more, I can think of another, better, description.  Love.  Love and fear are the same thing, they coincide—two sides of the same coin.  They both emanate from that dark abyss deep inside you; they are omnipresent, unavoidable, and ultimately primal reactions; they both strike you down and leave you completely helpless.

I’ve felt fear.  I’ve been frozen by it.  But afterwards, I lost the capacity to feel love, as if the fear had frozen my heart.  So I suppose it’s really just one or the other.  I truly hope you find love before…fear finds you.  This is what happened.

I believe one of the worst things in this world is gathering wood.  It’s not so bad, I guess, if the weather outside isn’t a mix of torrential ice rain, snow, and the occasional golf ball-sized hailstones.  But that’s how it was, more or less.  In fact, I was stupid enough to look up to the sky more than once and be greeted by a pleasant chunk of ice to the eye.  In retrospect, I should have argued a little harder with my mother about it.  She was adamant, of course—it was getting cold in the house.  The weather man kept saying that the temperature would drop to well below zero as midnight approached.  Which meant more ice; on the roads, weighing down the power lines, breaking perfectly strong tree branches, and, most of all, blanketing the chaotic pile of wood situated in the driveway.

So there I found myself: standing fully clad in my winter-weather gear (thick gloves that made my hands look live oversized corn dogs; uncomfortable boots that did nothing against sliding on the ice; and a jacket that felt like a fireman’s Kevlar suit, only I would be dealing with something quite the opposite of fire), and looking dejectedly at the wood that recently became a solid and, indeed, useless igloo.   That wood wasn’t coming apart.  With an axe, perhaps, but not with my gloved hands.  Regardless, I began tugging at the foremost log; rather, I fought against it, pulling, punching, chipping, kicking…hoping.  My spoils were a few large balls of ice, but no wood.  I thought maybe, with enough force, I could bring in frozen shards of the wood, stick them in the fireplace, and hope for the best.

I decided to go get the axe.

The iced-over snow covering the front yard almost came up to my knees.  It was good exercise, to walk even 30 feet to where the axe leaned against a forlorn and chopped-up little tree.  Next to it was the stump upon which my father chopped the wood now sitting in the driveway.  Why the wood and its method of production were in two completely different places was beyond me.  Nevertheless, that’s where the axe was.  It, too, was caked in a layer of ice, but no so frozen as rendered impossible to grasp.  I just had to hit it against its tree-companion a few times.  I tested it on a nearby hunk of thrown-away bark.  The axe bifurcated just as it’s supposed to.  Excellent.  I trekked back over to the wood pile with some effort, slinging the axe over my shoulder, feeling cool.

I slammed the axe into the wood pile, again and again, each time extracting a little bit more wood.  My mother looked out of the steamed-over Plexiglas front door and yelled something.  I couldn’t make out exactly what she said over the slamming of the axe.  It was actually quite noisy.  I stopped and turned to listen to her.

“What are you doing?” she said. “Just get some wood, it’s freezing in here.”

“How do you think it feels out here?” I said back, and sighed.  “The wood’s frozen, just like everything else.  I have to chip away at it.”

“Okay.  Hurry up.”

Mom went back inside.  Then, a second later, she came back out.

“Ethan? Did you say something else?” she asked.

“Huh?  No, I didn’t say anything.  You hear something?”  I leaned on the axe, dangerously.

“I just thought I heard you say something.  Sorry.”  Mom looked toward the woods next to our house, back at me, then back to the woods again, craning her neck.

“Looking for something?” I said.  She laughed weakly and went back inside.  Gathering wood is one of the worst things in the world, definitely.  I rolled my eyes.

Finally, after ten minute’s worth of swinging the axe like a madman, I had a pretty good pile of wood in the carrier.  Wood dripping with ice water, sure, but what else was there?  I lifted the carrier and slipped a little on the ice and the axe fell from my hands with an audible clank on the ice; it skated across the driveway into the yard.

“Woah.”  I steadied myself on the pile of wood and tiptoed to the axe.  I shouldn’t just leave it in the yard to freeze over.

Just as I reached down to grab it, I was on the ground with it.  My head was pounding.  I hadn’t slipped though; it was as though someone had pushed me…

“Get him up, come on,” said a gravelly voice. “Grab the axe.  Come on.”

Two pairs of hands stood me up by my underarms, while another figure walked past me and took the axe.  A figure stood in front of me, too: tall, cloaked, and menacing in my blurred vision.  Someone had to have hit me on the head from behind.  I ducked in and out of consciousness.   I noticed the one with the axe slide next to the figure in front of me, brandish the axe, and whisper something to the other.  They both turned and stared at me, and I observed that I could only see one pair of eyes—that of the tall man without the axe.  It seemed almost as if axe-man had no eyes at all; all I could see of him was the moonlight reflecting off his icy cloak.

But the tall man…his eyes…  My head bobbed up so I could see the full and glossy moon, and then back down to the man’s eyes.  They, too, shone with a luminous and eerie glow.  He grinned.  I blacked out.

When I regained consciousness again, I was moving.  Not voluntarily, though.  I was being dragged by my arms and jacket.  I felt the snowy and bumpy ground against my exposed lower back.  Everything was strangely soundless, when I should have been hearing the scraping of the ground, the men’s footsteps, and the sound of the ice dripping off the trees and cracking their branches.

My sight remained intact, though.  I saw the trees rushing by, and not much else.  I must have been miles from any house around, for I saw only trees and ice.  My legs made two distinct tracks in the snow.  I could discern the vague footprints of each man.  There were four of them.  I could also see a thin strip in the snow made by the axe, dragged on the ground much like I was.  I wondered then, why the hell did they take the axe too?  And I saw darkness.

January 28, 2009

My entire body is cold.  My mind keeps returning to thoughts of hypothermia.  I can’t really think of much else.  These people…they keep coming in and out of the room, and I don’t know what they want.  I don’t even know why I’m here!  Can’t I just go home?  It feels like I’m in a cage with no room to maneuver whatsoever.  I’m really just glad I have you, Notebook.  And you, Monsieur Pen.  Are you my only friends?  Seems like it.  I can’t stand these people much longer.

Oh, there she is.  My mother, calling for me.  I’m laughing.  She wants me to come out to the dining room and eat dinner with “the family”.  Not a chance.  I can’t stand those barbarians.  Maybe call it teenage angst—it isn’t.  I’m 16, and mature for my age, right?  I don’t have angst, I just have my real-world cynicism…right?

Ugh, every word is like an axe in my back, chop, chop, chop.  Nag, yell, grumble.  Send me on a guilt trip, that will get me out there, Mom.  I wish she’d use my real name instead of my given name.  I don’t want to use any name he gave me.  What kind of name is Jacqueline?  Jackie?  No way.  My name’s Jade, Mom.  See, it still starts with a J, isn’t that enough?  No?  Oh, the things I’d like to say to you, mi madre.

What can I do to get away from all this, O Omniscient Journal?  What’s that?  Thoughts of suicide?  No, I’d never do that.  It’s too cold, anyway.  Whatever that means.  Maybe I could use some…intense cold, though.  Clear my thoughts, you know?  Before it gets dark…

Yeah, maybe I’ll take a walk in the woods.                           

I’m the only one here.  I just woke up. 

My wife’s not here.  She asked me if I wanted to join her in browsing for a new washing machine.  I told her no.  I’d much rather stay at home.  She left to find a new washing machine, even though the one we have now works just fine.  I used it just an hour ago.

My father’s not here.  He lives with us, since his wife died.  He’s an old, grey, bespectacled little man.  I love him, but he never says much to me.  He’s old-fashioned.  He used to cut wood for a living; he earned a nice little living on it.  People need wood here, I guess.  I never notice the cold.  Being old, my father certainly notices the cold, always complaining about it and nagging me to throw some wood on the fire, but I never do.  He told me that I would absolutely never listen to him or reason.  He’s wrong, you know.  I used the fireplace just an hour ago.

My son’s not here.  David always has something to do; he never seems to stay in one place very long.  He’s sixteen, handsome, charming—he gets all the girls, and I know that’s why he always goes.  He asked me if he could borrow my car before he left.  I told him no, and he threw his typical fit.  He said I always stay inside and never use my car for anything. That’s not true.  I used the car just an hour ago. 

My dog’s not here.  She’s really a puppy, not much older than a few months, but still almost big enough to take me down with enough speed.  She always jumps on me when it’s time for her walk.  I never walk her, but for some reason I’m the one she’s most attached to.  I tell her no each time.  She even learned to fetch her leash and bring it to me, as if it were some sort of incentive or to send me on some guilt trip.  I always chuckle at her, take the leash, and place it up a little higher, hoping next time she won’t be able to reach it.  Her eyes sometimes get me, though: pitiful puppy eyes.  She’s such a good actress.  She has become less enthusiastic over time, as if to say to me that she’s lost hope that I’ll ever take her on a walk.  She beckons with the leash, nudging my hand with her wet nose, almost trying to force it into my hand to make sure I use it.  I guess I finally gave in.  I used the leash just an hour ago.

I’m the only one here.  I just woke up…but now I think I’ll go back to sleep.  It’s too quiet here.

“A gunshot wound to the head, inflicted with a shotgun.  It was pretty gruesome.  He was in his own bed.”

Another rather large and husky man shuffled some papers on the desk.  “But that’s not all…?”

“No, unfortunately.  We thought he was alone in the house at first, but then we returned and investigated.”

“And?”  The chief of police rubbed his eyes, weary with the weight of a long (and looking to be even longer) day.

“He wasn’t alone.  We found his wife’s body stuffed into the washing machine in the basement.  It looks like she was suffocated with some bed sheets.  He…turned on the washer after his wife was all inside.”

“What the hell?”

“Then an older gentleman, about 75 years old, who we presume to be his father.  Well, actually, we only found the remains of him.  His limbs were all severed, along with his head, and his torso was bifurcated.  Relatively cleanly, I might add, as if with an axe.  We found the remains of the father in the fireplace, partly charred.  The guy lit a match and threw it in with him.  Looks like the hair was set on fire first.”

“Jesus.”

“A younger guy, anywhere from 15 to 18 years old, his son.  We found him in the guy’s car sitting in the garage.  The car was on, and the kid’s hands were duct-taped to the steering wheel.  His eyes were still open.”

“…”

“Finally, we found his dog.  This is the…weirdest one.  We found it several blocks down the street, followed by a trail of blood.  It had its leash on, and all of its legs were amputated.  It’s like the guy took it for a walk, only…it couldn’t walk.”

“Did this guy leave any kind of suicide note or…anything?  Or was he just fucking insane?”

“Actually, we did find this note on his bed, written in shaky, uneven letters.  We believe he wrote it just before he shot himself.  It says, ‘They said I’d never use the shotgun.’”