It is Christmas Eve. But isn't snowing. It isn't even cold enough for anything to be frozen. Yet she gazes out, icy bones, icy fingers, icy soul. And she tries so very hard not to feel empty at the frivolous, meaningless chatter and the thoughtless gifts that are presented to her
They're well-meaning. They're innocent. They're--oh, who gives a fuck? She certainly never has.
It is Christmas. But she hears no angels singing . Not now, not ever. She has found nothing to rejoice in this year. Anyone like her would understand. But wait--ah, yes. This time of year serves as a bitter reminder that there is no one like her. She has driven away everything and everyone who held her dear.
They'll trap her in their embrace. They'll clip her wings. They'll-- God, she can't stand the sound of her own heartbeat in this singular cacophony. She imagines another there, the two organs beating in symphonic duet.
Therefore, Christmas must not exist for her That must be it. If it did, she would be inside by a cozy fire, drinking eggnog and hot cocoa with her loved ones, not sipping apple cider rum with strangers. (The effect of it is burning, more so than what's intended). She's getting tipsier by the second, and before she notices, she's wandered outside, and into the street…
Christmas does not exist. Or she wouldn't be slumped against a brick wall, crying from all the damn alcohol. Definitely not from the pain. That doesn't exist either.
She isn't sure how long she lies there, but she eventually feel strong and tender arms lifting her carefully.
I'll take you home
With you?
Where else?
The world is still spinning when she is placed delicately on a soft bed. She giggles as she watches him crawl to sit beside her. Liquid amber eyes meet hers and there is a fire in them more intoxicating than any drink.
Fingers brush aside her damp hair. A warm embrace envelopes her. And she's found it.
Her Christmas isn't angels, gifts, or snow. Her Christmas is a boy who traces tantalizing patterns on her bare midriff, who takes her fingers and intertwines them with his own, who kisses her mouth with such an vulnerable openness it takes her breath away.
Her Christmas is seeing those long fingers pluck at the strings of a guitar and the way his entire body trembles as he kneels to the ground. She breaks then, into countless pieces of glass, and upon seeing this he is terrified that something has gone wrong and he takes her into his arms once again. He barely hears her acquiesce.
And Christmas is over when he kisses her eyes closed and he draws her near to snuggle against him, but not before slipping the gold band onto her finger.