As if in a dream, Lewis wandered the shore of Lake Carlson. The white docks extended to the water like an invitation he was forced to accept. He aimlessly walked to the end of each one and stared at the lake. At the place where it happened.
Laughter from children playing in the grass and in the water grated in his ears. A vague reminder of his short life. Of what he’d done. Lewis wasn’t the only one who died that day.
Eventually he made his way down the shore to the old Victorian. By then the trees had turned orange, then brown. Winter was coming and the houses were boarded up. Though the wind blew cold, Lewis didn’t feel it. Like he was part of it. He made his way to the end of the dock, and his feet made no sound on the boards. Sometimes he thought he could walk on water.
Sometimes he did.
Then he sank back into Lake Carlson. Back to the place it happened. To the place among the lake weeds where he died.
Ooooohhhh!
Nice writing!