From my novel to be published in November 2005. This story will be published both in icelandic and english. It will also be intergrated into a graphic novel Diane999, the Cobalto Saga.
25. December
I dreamt the same dream all night long. When I finally managed to pull myself out of it, I wasn’t sure what was a dream and what was reality. In the dream I was within the body of the chameleon. Every time the circumstances changed, I changed. I tried to brake out of the chameleons spell, but the fear wouldn’t let go. I drew in other people’s emotions as paper draws ink. I was multicolored but never me, lost within the expectations of the environment.
When I woke up I put on my long black dress with the velvet flowers and pulled on my Dr. Martins. I tried to get into joyful mood for Christmas.
We drove over the mountain, the heath, and the moss, towards my grandparent’s village. They are spending the holidays in Egypt. We all thought it was a great idea to gather in their little castle. Everybody is going to be there, even The Fisher King, my adopted father. Despite the fact that him and mom have divorced and my mom have remarried. We are going to try to recapture the glow of past Christmas.
Perhaps the magic of the house can make its way in our hearts?
We arrived just before the eye of the storm. Inside the house, silver tree and fake logs burn bright. 100 candles cast comfort while outside the storm is building up.
The Fisher King arrived from his little village around five o’clock. He dropped off Jason, my teenage brother. He lives with our father. The Fisher King said he was going to run some errands before dinner and left my brother with us.
The day has run it’s course, Christmas dinner is cold and untouched, my father is not here, he never came back. The storms dark fingers of fear running up and down my spine. The rescue squat is looking for him at the mountain, the heath, the moss, deep wombs, swallowing hope, as the snow becomes mountains and I can hear his voice, beyond dreams.
26. December - morning
We stayed up until five in the morning. If the phone rang, then our hearts took an extra beat. Hope, dear hope, are you only an illusion, a selective thinking? I woke up at seven and felt as if I had slept for 1000 years.
Dad has vanished without a trace. The rescue squats have looked for him in all thinkable places. We have called everyone we can think of. The problem is that he was such an introvert that no one knew him or his thoughts. We spent all night speculating all sort of possibilities on what could have happened to him, but we didn’t reach any conclusion. All that was left was an endless stream of conjectural ideas. The only thing I desire now is a sign that I can interpret. My heart is white, it hardly beats anymore, and the fear is eating me up, all the way into the marrow.
Christmas evening
Now we know for sure. My father The Fisher King killed himself last night. He must have been in much agony, but I hope that he has found peace wherever his soul has wandered. It is hard to believe that I will never see him again. The day was like a nightmare in slow motion. We got heaps of happy sleeping pills from our GP, but no other trauma assistance. It is quite absurd to watch my family among all these Christmas decorations. I pinch myself ever so often to see on what side of the dream world I am at. Those borders have not always been clear in my life.
My stepfather is trying to get my mother to create a happy, happy, joy, joy song for the upcoming Eurovision contest and it is making the situation even more bizarre. I feel a lot of tension in the air. This time around I have no idea how to read it.
We went to the place where the police said he had walked into the river. It was swelling with ice and darkness. The car was still standing there; I sat in it and touched the steering wheel gently. As if I was hoping to find his warmth still on it. I noticed that he had taken off his jacked; he even left his wallet and his watch in the glove department, but no letter to be found anywhere.
I pictured him in my minds eye walking heavily into the river, a little bit bent. A lone dark shadow in a blizzard of white. I have hardly been able to cry at all.
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25. December
