Prompt: Saint Nick

Little Deaths

Dahlia's mother used to talk about Saint Nick. How he would come and leave presents for good little girls, on Creatormas Eve.

It was the Creatormas before she was taken that Dahlia finally accused her mother of lying to her: everyone knew there was no such thing as Saint Nick. If he'd ever lived at all, he was long since in the Underworld.

And Dahlia's mother had sighed, and nodded, and explained that, even though Saint Nick didn't visit every house, didn't leave presents, he still lived on, because everyone who believed honored Saint Nick's spirit. They gave and gave, trying to bring a little joy into the hearts of their friends and neighbors, on Creatormas.

Not every lesson so internalized could be broken out of Dahlia.

Thus it was that she laid the little bottles of salve on the empty beds of each of her roommates. She longed to mark Cara's out as special somehow—a ribbon, perhaps. But Saint Nick was supposed to be anonymous, so she left it as it was.

Salve for the skin—maybe salve for the heart.

"What are you doing?" the voice was high and incredulous. Dahlia whipped around, braid swinging, to face Denna. "Are those—are those Creatormas gifts?"

Dahlia glared, mind racing. How to deny everything—?

"How sweet," Denna said, her smile sharp enough to draw blood. "Our little bitch. Did your mistress teach you this trick, puppy?"

Dahlia launched herself at Denna, too angry even to reach for her agiels, resorting to her fingernails—scraping blood from that perfect, golden face—

"This bitch bites," she said, and suited action to word—

Denna fought back, of course, and Dahlia won, finally drawing her agiels and beating Denna to within an inch of her life—

But it didn't matter. The damage was done: Dahlia never left Creatormas gifts again.

Saint Nick—hah. A myth for children.

Dahlia had no time for such nonsense.