(Anonymous)
The ice doesn’t feel very thin, but does it ever? Niels, sure of himself, takes another step onto the slippery surface, his feet splayed outward away from his centre so that he walks like a duck. He is used to walking on slippery; through mud, or on damp kitchen tile, or through the shower room in the sports centre, or on ice on a cold winter's morning, lugging himself to school through a cloud of condensed breath and steam from the sewers below and this is nothing new. He does not flail, nor does he slip around the way some of his friends do. He places his feet carefully without ever losing speed, sure of his footing even as he kicks the football. On the ice, the ball goes further and they use this to their advantage along with the clumsy running of the other team to make it into a messy, fast-paced game.
Of course, none of the adults would ever allow such a thing, but that is why they say they are all at (name)'s, where (name)'s mother doesn't mind that they lie and sneak off and play football on the frozen fjord. To them, the worst that can happen is a broken bone, a split lip from falling onto the ice, or into one another. Neils lets his arms hang lose as he runs, so that they flop inadvertently and sometimes trip up the other boys. It's impossible to call it a red-card that way; intention is everything. It is because of this that he is alone within the first five minutes of the game, so ahead of the defenders that it hardly seems fair. His foot strikes the ball evenly, carefully so that it is kept well in front of him but is never truly out of his control. He'll make a great mid-fielder for Sweden one day, they say, and at the moment he can't help but place himself in the middle of the final game of the World Cup as he winds his leg back and lets the ball fly towards the lower right corner of the makeshift nets they've put up.
The break, when it comes, is so instantaneously he doesn't know what hits him. One moment, he is leading Sweden into victory, the next he is back on the ice, or not back on the ice but in the ice, with the ice. His vision is blurred, and for a moment he can't help but to blink as though somehow he had just gotten something in his eyes but it isn't dirt or snow, it is water, and it is impossible to blink away because it is surrounding him. He claws upwards, a exemplary swimmer when trying but now just a mess of uncoordinated limbs as panic takes over. The pain doesn't hit, not yet. Later, there will be pins and needles but right now there is just fear as his hands push over his head and touch nothing but ice. Ice above him, beside him. He presses his mouth to it, to an air bubble and thinks about how ironic it is that Niels the great swimmer and future Mid Fielder will die here in the middle of a frozen fjord from drowning of all things. It is an odd thought for a nine year-old boy, but it will stick with him for the rest of his life, haunting him in his darkest hours. A boot comes through the ice, plunging water and chunks of ice into a flurry and Niels wonders if that's how God always comes to get the dead, but death isn't supposed to hurt like pins and needles and fire and anyway, it's just (name), breaking through the thin sheet of ice that has already formed over where he has fallen through. There is no God pulling him out, just a boy five years older than him, clasping Niels by the back of his coat and dragging him onto dry land.
Of course, none of the adults would ever allow such a thing, but that is why they say they are all at (name)'s, where (name)'s mother doesn't mind that they lie and sneak off and play football on the frozen fjord. To them, the worst that can happen is a broken bone, a split lip from falling onto the ice, or into one another. Neils lets his arms hang lose as he runs, so that they flop inadvertently and sometimes trip up the other boys. It's impossible to call it a red-card that way; intention is everything. It is because of this that he is alone within the first five minutes of the game, so ahead of the defenders that it hardly seems fair. His foot strikes the ball evenly, carefully so that it is kept well in front of him but is never truly out of his control. He'll make a great mid-fielder for Sweden one day, they say, and at the moment he can't help but place himself in the middle of the final game of the World Cup as he winds his leg back and lets the ball fly towards the lower right corner of the makeshift nets they've put up.
The break, when it comes, is so instantaneously he doesn't know what hits him. One moment, he is leading Sweden into victory, the next he is back on the ice, or not back on the ice but in the ice, with the ice. His vision is blurred, and for a moment he can't help but to blink as though somehow he had just gotten something in his eyes but it isn't dirt or snow, it is water, and it is impossible to blink away because it is surrounding him. He claws upwards, a exemplary swimmer when trying but now just a mess of uncoordinated limbs as panic takes over. The pain doesn't hit, not yet. Later, there will be pins and needles but right now there is just fear as his hands push over his head and touch nothing but ice. Ice above him, beside him. He presses his mouth to it, to an air bubble and thinks about how ironic it is that Niels the great swimmer and future Mid Fielder will die here in the middle of a frozen fjord from drowning of all things. It is an odd thought for a nine year-old boy, but it will stick with him for the rest of his life, haunting him in his darkest hours. A boot comes through the ice, plunging water and chunks of ice into a flurry and Niels wonders if that's how God always comes to get the dead, but death isn't supposed to hurt like pins and needles and fire and anyway, it's just (name), breaking through the thin sheet of ice that has already formed over where he has fallen through. There is no God pulling him out, just a boy five years older than him, clasping Niels by the back of his coat and dragging him onto dry land.