Page 2 of Snowman

People were hurrying, scarves and coats wrapped high, the sound of footsteps crunching through the snow. A woman slipped, flailing her arms, catching herself with a nervous laugh. Children shrieked, their laughter carrying through the stillness. Two girls crouched by a snowman, their cheeks red with cold.

The older one yanked a striking scarf from her sister's head and threw it around the snowman's neck. The tiny one giggled, pushed askew a bright hat upon her head, and positioned it on the top. The little gloved hand fixed in a wayward smile on the grim iced face of the picture; two twig arms rubbed on either side into their frosty giant. I couldn't help but smile. At that moment, it was almost as if the world had condensed itself into something so pure and simple. And I almost envied the children who bring joy to their world, untouched by the weight that obscures it. I shut my eyes again, trying to catch my memories, but they all slipped away, melting like snow. My childhood is a blur, hazy at best; pieces missing, edges frayed. Who was I? Some shell, a shadow of the person that I once wanted to be yet could no longer remember.

I opened my eyes, and they fell upon the cup of coffee cradled in my hands. The dark liquid rippled where my fingers had slightly moved. My eyes dropped down to my wrists, where oldscars carved across like faded whispers of a pain I wanted to bury.

Two parallel lines, remind me of nights when the darkness had promised to swallow me whole. A lump rose in my throat, and unwanted tears spilled out, running down my cheeks and the sudden warmth shocking my cold skin. Memories washing over me.

I set the cup carefully down on the bench which groaned under the weight of the cup, and I tugged at my sleeves to cover the scars, as if to hide them from everyone. My hands rose to my face and rubbed off the tears that clung to my chin.

"I'll be fine," I whispered, my voice trembling. "I promise."

I reached into my handbag and pulled out my notebook, its leather cover smooth to the touch from a thousand moments like this one. Its earthy, brown surface seemed to stare back at me as if it held secrets I was yet to write. My fingers were trembling, flipping it open to a blank page. The cool paper felt fragile under my palm.

A tear broke free, unnoticed until it splashed onto the corner of the page, oozing outward in a small, uneven stain. The date spilled from my lips in a whisper, anchoring me.

"November 6th."

The pen hovered over the page before pressing down. My handwriting, shaking, carved through the silence around me.

Date: November 6th.

Mood: Fine.

Thankful: For life.

I slapped the notebook shut, the leather spine softly snapping in the air. I pushed it into my purse and mashed the flap down like I was sealing away what was inside.

My hands clasped together, fingers lacing, thumbs pressed side by side. I bit my lower lip, the sting grounding me, my thumbnail digging into the soft skin of my other hand. Thefaint pain distracted me but wasn't enough to block the tide of nightmares and memories that crept in.

"I am fine,"I muttered to myself.

The words left my lips like a mantra, though my chest tightened with the fog of flashbacks. Fragmented and fleeting faces that I could not name, voices humming just beyond recognition; impossible to discern which were nightmares and which scenes from real life that I had elected to forget.

Then, the touch on my shoulder, when I least expected it. I opened my eyes, my breath caught in my throat.

A voice came, soft and familiar, though distant. "Bree, are you ready?"

I blinked at her, my mouth opening but no sound coming out. Then, as if drawn by instinct, I whispered, "Mom?"

She smiled a small, hesitant smile, the sort that carried more questions than answers.

"Yes," she said simply, her fingers slipping into mine.

"Why did you change your hair?"

She blinked, startled, and then chuckled low. Her hair was deep, almost jet black, not the golden blonde I was used to and had grown up seeing every day. It was pulled back into a high ponytail. The contrast made her look like a version of herself I didn't know.

She stared at me, her face searching, like I'd struck upon some secret she'd never intended to reveal. Her fingers toyed with a stray lock of hair, twirling it over and over.

"You don't like it?" she asked, her tone casual, yet hesitant.

I didn't want to deflate her, not when she already seemed so unsure of herself. Forcing a smile, I softened my tone. "I do like it. I just… have to get used to it."

A small, relieved smile curved her lips and she squeezed my shoulders reassuringly. "Yeah, me too."

We walked across the parking lot together, the thin snow crunching beneath our steps. A car came into view, Dad sitting in the driver's seat, his red baseball cap tilted low as he fiddled with the radio. In the back, my sister sat silently, her head turned out the window, watching something outside in the world.

"You two done chatting?" Dad called out as we approached. His tone was sharp, impatient. "Get in. We're late."

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