It is Christ-mas eve, and Clarabelle promised she would come to celebrate. The Nye knows this for a fact, because it has been anticipating this ever since she first mentioned it a few weeks past.
It is Christ-mas eve, and Clarabelle is not here.
It looks around mournfully. The room is gorgeous, with its metal and its corpses and its blood. It's quite chic in a surrealist way, and there's no place the Nye would rather be. Still, it wishes that its rather loopy pyromaniac of an assistant would hurry up and keep it company. It's lonely.
To pass the time, it speaks to the carcasses. It tells them stories about the glut of subjects it receives after the binge-drinking that marks out the Yule celebrations, about that one year when a group of young people had killed themselves playing Russian Roulette just outside of its working-space, and with every memory, it becomes more despondent.
When it has given up hope and is burying its head in its hands, there is the whisper of flames, and it looks up and smiles at the sight of its assistant holding what looks suspiciously like a fruitcake that has been set on fire.
A/N: Getting all angsty and depressed because I spent last Christmas with object-of-infatuation, and because I'm stuck in Singapore. Where there is no snow. Unlike the UK. Also, no object-of-infatuation. Also unlike the UK.
TL;DR: angst angst angst angst angst.
~Mademise Morte, December 24