Postcard
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Bobby Twist is six years old, and the door is open. His Mom is in the kitchen making dinner, and he has never been inside his Daddy's study before.
The room is dark, and the heavy, dull blinds are pulled, and the mahogany desk that dominates the centre of the space looks as black as the thin rug it rests on. There are shelves of books lining two walls, and Bobby's father lies asleep on the battered crimson couch.
Bobby watches the dust dancing, illuminated by a single chink of winter sunlight peeking through the window, shining onto the whiskey bottle in his Daddy's hand; the bottle is mostly empty, but the little liquid that remains looks black. Bobby knows that it should be amber – his Daddy drinks whiskey a lot, and every time his Mom shakes her head and purses scarlet lips and says nothing.
The boy creeps over to the desk. The rest of the room is tidy, but it is scattered with books and papers and pens; atop the pile rests a postcard with a snow-capped mountain on it, and Bobby turns it over. In his Daddy's best handwriting is scrawled,
Merry Christmas Friend.
As he turns it back over the man stirs, and Bobby sprints out of the study and sits at the bottom of the stairs and wonders just how his Daddy is going to get that card to whoever it's meant for when it's already Christmas Day.
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Merry Christmas!