Breathers Read Online Free

states, but California's Child Protective Services frowns upon single parents who allow a zombie to live at home. And when it comes to visitation rights, the undead have zero.
    After the accident, my seven-year-old daughter, Annie, went to live with my wife's sister in Monterey. As far as Annie knows, I'm dead. But during the first few weeks after I reanimated, I would call my sister-in-law's place every day, hoping Annie would answer the phone just so I could hear her voice, until her aunt and uncle got an unlisted phone number.
    I wrote several letters to Annie but the letters never made it out of the house. Mom and Dad confiscated and destroyed the first letter when I asked for a stamp. The second letter vanished from under my mattress while I was soaking in Pine-Sol. The rest got intercepted at different points along the path to Annie before ever getting stamped with a postmark.
    After a couple of months, I gave up. Eventually, I decided my parents were probably acting in the best interests of my daughter. As much as I miss Annie and wish I could see her again, I don't think it'd be a good idea. Knowing that her father is a zombie might not be something she's ready or able to accept. Besides, I don't want her to remember me this way. And I don't exactly think she'd want to take me to any father-daughter picnics.
    Show and tell, maybe.
    When I reach the top of the stairs and step into the kitchen, my mother sprays me with a can of Glade Neutralizerfragrance, circling around and covering me from head to toe, emptying the last of the can in my hair. My parents buy Glade in bulk. Mom prefers the Neutralizer fragrance because it works directly toward the source of the odor. I'm partial to Lilac Spring, though Tropical Mist has a nice, fruity scent.
    My father is on his back under the kitchen sink, his head and upper torso inside the cabinet. Several wrenches, screwdrivers, a can of WD-40, and assorted tools lay on the floor around him. A brand new garbage disposal sits on the counter next to the sink.
    “Harry,” my mother says. “Andy's here to help.”
    “I don't need any goddamned help,” he says, straining to loosen a bolt on the old garbage disposal.
    “Oh nonsense,” says my mother. “You've been under that sink for over an hour already. Of course you need help.”
    My father could probably pay a plumber and have the disposal fixed in under an hour. Instead, he'd rather spend three hours growing frustrated and swearing at inanimate objects so he can save one hundred and twenty dollars. After all, he is a de facto expert.
    “Lois,” my father says, going after the bolt again. “I'm going to say this one last time. I don't … need … any … help.”
    The wrench slips and my father's hand smashes against something hard and metal.
    My father slides out from under the sink, holding his right hand and reeling off a string of profanities that would make me blush if I still had any blood in my cheeks. He storms out of the kitchen, making sure to give me a wide berth and holding his breath while avoiding eye contact.
    “Don't mind your father,” my mother says, walking over to the oven as the timer goes off. “He's just in a mood.”
    My father's been in a mood ever since I came home.
    My mother removes a cookie sheet filled with Pillsbury cinnamon rolls from the oven and sets it on the counter, then grabs a knife and starts to slather the cinnamon rolls with the prepackaged icing.
    There are a lot of things I miss about being alive:
    Going out to the movies with Rachel.
    Watching Annie play soccer.
    Sitting around a beach bonfire without having to wonder if someone's going to try to throw me into it.
    And sometimes, I miss food.
    It's not that I don't eat. I eat all the time. But one of the major drawbacks of being a zombie, aside from the decomposing flesh and the absence of civil rights and the children who scream at the sight of you, is that food has lost most of its flavor. Everything tastes unseasoned,