Sixteen Small Deaths Read Free

frozen ice.
    I laid my head under a quilted throw-pillow and remembered one of the first moments I realized my stepfather loved me like I was his own. It was only a year into he and my mother’s marriage, and I spent the majority of my time wondering where my real father had retreated after ditching what I imagined to be the two people closest to him. It was the early winter and the multi-colored fireflies of Christmas lights adorned the trees in our front yard. I sat on the front steps, watching a layer of thick snow dance amidst a perfect winter landscape. Crushing a fistful of snow and ice in my hand, I tossed it as far as I could manage. It smacked the end of the driveway in a soundless explosion. My stepfather emerged from the front door, wooly jacket covering his hairy and tattooed arms. He sat next to me and smiled, scraping snow from the stairs with his boots.
    “Has anyone ever shown you how to make the perfect snowball?” he asked.
    I shook my head, staring at the ground.
    He leaned forward and scooped a mix of slush and puffy snow, curling it in his fist like it was a hardboiled egg. I watched as he pouted his lips and worked the ice until it was nearly perfect in circumference. He showed it to me, holding it between the tips of his now red fingertips.
    “This,” he said, “is good enough to throw.”
    He tossed it with a gentle heave, nearly tripling the distance of my throw a few minutes earlier. It shattered with a glittery boom,fractures of moonlight shining with each mirrored piece.
    I sighed and adjusted the pillow under my head. I could see the reflection of the storm’s final drippings on the blank television screen a few feet away. The shuffling upstairs stopped, and I silently wondered if my father was going to experience the same memory-laden dreams as I was about to encounter.
    #
    The aromatic pleasure of fresh coffee woke me from a solid dreaming state. I could hear spoons and pans colliding in the kitchen like a momentary morning symphony. I lifted my legs off the couch and stretched the stiffness in my back. Before I could stand up, my father greeted me with a smile and a cornflower-blue mug, wisps of steam floating from its open mouth.
    He sat next to me and placed the mug on the wooden coffee table a few inches away. “Just the way you like it,” he said. “A little bit of skim milk and three spoons of sugar.”
    I took a long sip, sizzling springs of caffeine jolting my body into full consciousness. I crossed my legs over the table and pointed behind me. “How does it look out there?”
    My father inched his head over his shoulder and peeked out the living-room window. “Shouldn’t be too bad out there, son. I bet all of the main roads and highways should be fine.” He cleared his throat. “What time do you have to meet him?”
    “Noon, or a little after.”
    My father nodded, then stood up. “Well, you’re going to have to get some eggs and toast in that body if you want energy for that long drive. It’ll be ready in a few minutes.”
    “Great. Thanks, Dad.” I tilted my mug towards him in a joyous toast.
    He chuckled. “Save the theatrics for breakfast.”
    #
    I shoved my hands through my jet-black pea coat and silently wished for summer. When I was a kid, my father and I traveled to a bakery outside of town for a cake for my mother’s birthday. The roads were icy, and one quick turn forced our Jeep into a nearby tree. Neither of us was hurt, but since then I’ve been afraid to drive with snow and ice on the road.
    I was about to open the front door when I heard his voice from behind me.
    “Trevor?” My father stood with a silver travel mug in his arms. “I know you’re not going to forget our discussion last night, but please, do not let this man sway you with anything, not even memories of your childhood. Your mother swore that she would never let him see you again.”
    I blew a round of cool air through my teeth. “Do you think I’m breaking Mom’s heart by going