Page 3 of Snowman

Mom hesitated, then leaned closer to me, her voice a whisper that carried more weight than I was prepared for. "Maybe we can all start over," she said. Her eyes, dark and hopeful, lingered on mine.

I nodded, unsure of what else to say. "It'll be fine."

Fine. That one word had become my shield, my answer to everything. When nothing was fine, I said it anyway, hoping repetition would make it true. Maybe if I said it enough, I could trick myself into believing it, into feeling whole. Maybe then I'd be enough. Maybe they'd care. But we all had our masks. From the outside, every town we moved to, every dinner table we gathered around, painted the picture of a perfect family. Inside, we were splintered, each of us silently searching for ways to escape—through tears, through alcohol, through others—but never truly leaving. We were trapped in the illusion of perfection, our four walls painted in lies and cracks no one dared to acknowledge.

We were far from perfect. We were fucked up. And we knew it.

I opened the car door and slid into the back seat, crossing my arms over my chest to lean against the cold window. My eyes strayed into the rearview mirror and locked with Dad's. He shook his head slightly, small but with tons of unspoken emotion attached to the gesture. I could feel his disappointment, which came from him in heavy waves.

My sister sat next to me, still watching the world blur past outside. She didn't speak, hadn't, not since the accident. Her silence hung in the air between us like a weight. For a long time after, I hadn't spoken much either. But where I'd found my voice again, hers remained lost, stuck somewhere in the past, playing the same day on an endless loop.

I reached over and let my hand drop onto hers. I squeezed it gently, silently promising,"I'm here. I'll stay. For both of us."

That's why I didn't run; that's why, when the urge to leave seared through me like a fire, I hadn't left. I couldn't leave her behind.

With the humming noise of the car and nothing but silence between us, I watched as the world changed through the window: snow dusted hills and tall trees gave way to small towns and their dimly lit streets with shadows passing.

Two hours in and the fog thickened over the road, settling heavy like a veil. Darkness closed in and the landscape darkened as if trying to swallow the car into the trees that leaned near. It was gloomy outside, and the heaviness in us was mirrored by the heavy shadows of all that we would carry.

I felt the weakness pulling me down, the darkness closing over me and luring me into sleep, until I saw the light again. It cut across the void so brightly that it stung, and I raised my hand to shield my eyes, the glow flickering across my face.

"Come," the voice whispered, soft and far away, pulling at something deep inside me. A small hand reached out to grab mine, tugging me forward. I had dreamt of this before. A woman, her eyes as endless as the sea, her hair white like freshly fallen snow, spun me in circles, her laughter ringing through the air. She whirled and danced, her hand gripping mine, pulling me into a world that was nothing but the sound of children's joy and the shimmer of golden light.

I had no idea who she was, or who the little girl was whom she spun so effortlessly in her arms. All I knew was, that in those dreams, I was happy. And somehow, I never wanted to wake up.

But dreams are not life. They are illusions, glimpses of the world the way we wish it could have been. I am a dreamer, clinging to shadow, refusing to accept life, colder and harder than that. Yet, in my dreams, I was alive somehow, in a way I would have no words for.

The light shifted, pulling me back, the sun knifed through fog sharp and gold, and my eyes flew open. Turning my head to the window, I watched the car speed past a small, wooden sign, letters worn, but still readable; Írafoss, Iceland.

The GPS voice finally spoke in a low hum: "You will reach your destination in forty-three minutes".

Forty-three minutes was all that remained until it started all over again: a new town, a new life; another mask to wear, another set of lies to tell. Another perfect picture to paint over the fractured reality we carried with us. I wasn't ready. Not yet.

TWO

BREE

The car rumbled toa stop in front of an older house, isolated from the neat rows of homes we had passed on the way. Its weathered façade loomed against the gray sky, the place that seemed to hold its breath in the silence of winter. Dad was the first to step out; his boots crunched against the snow as he moved toward the trunk. He stopped, looking now at the door through which an old woman stood patiently waiting for him.

The dim porch light framed her, the gray of her hair spilling over her shoulders in loose, uneven braids, its strands flashing dull silver. Deep lines wrinkled her face, tracing years she had left so long behind her. She let her thin hand rise, shaking, in a slow wave to greet our approach.

Dad opened the door for Mom, movements brisk, and she went out, elegant, as if smoothing her coat could shield her against the slicing wind. She moved toward this woman, handextended. Their fingers clung a moment before the two turned into the house.

I stayed in the car for a moment longer, staring out at the house. Its blackened bricks looked scorched, weather-beaten, and tired. Two large, dark windows flanked the front door, gleaming faintly with reflections of the snow-covered yard. Pine trees with sparse, twinkling lights stood on either side of the path leading to the door, their needles catching flakes that drifted lazily down from the overcast sky. The roof was sharp and stark against the dull backdrop, its edges outlined by a thick blanket of snow.

I finally reached out and grasped the handle of the car door, easing it open so I wouldn't make a sound I didn't need to. My boots bit the snow with a silent crunch. Snowflakes swirled down in tangles around me, catching in my hair and lashes. I tilted my head up for a moment, and let the cold flakes kiss my skin. Despite everything, it wasn't hateable.

The sound of the trunk slamming brought me back to the moment. Dad was wrestling with something, the metallic scrape of iron on paint setting my teeth on edge. He was dragging out the wheelchair for Mel, his movements sharp, irritated. He unfolded it with a violent snap, his face darkened by the shallow scratch he'd made on the car.

It was as if he valued the paint job on his car more than the fact his daughter couldn't walk.

He wheeled the chair to the left side of the car and yanked the door open. Wordlessly, he dragged her out of the seat, hoisting her like a sack of grain. Mel's body was limp but compliant, her head canting slightly as he plopped her into the chair.

"Would you fucking mind?" he barked, his voice sharp enough to make me flinch. Then he muttered under his breath, just loud enough for me to catch, "One's a plant, the other's dumb."

The words stung across my face, far harder than I cared to admit. One tear had escaped my eye before I could manage to check it. Heart racing, I hurried over to Mel's side, shaky hands grasping for the grips of the wheelchair. She doesn't turn to me; instead, her eyes are fixed somewhere, as always.

She sat straight, her posture impossibly perfect, but she didn't move, not even a twitch.

---