one Christmas eve by Heather D Haigh
When festive lights flash red—gold—green, scattering sparks from drooping tinsel into wind-gritted eyes while tired, fur-swathed mannikins mock with blank expressions—you're watching an old guy in a torn Puffa jacket shuffling past, bent beneath a tattered backpack and leaning on a stout stick. And even as you shrink into a shadowed corner, even as you shudder, he brings to mind Grandpa's tortoise, of all things. A ridiculous childhood image. You remember how you once thought carrying your home on your back must be so convenient. That tortoise would be hibernating in a box in Grandpa's shed now, if it hadn't failed to wake one year, the cold stealing it away. And if Grandpa hadn't followed.
You shiver at more recent memories of nights beneath the arches where men revelled in singing bawdily, pissing competitively, and cursing as they spat. You soon relinquished your spot there. That dark depression behind grabby, clawing brambles. You swapped it for a night running from beery-breathed revellers who call you a bewitching little thing, a prick tease, a slag, a slut. Jailbait.
You picture Grandpa lugging the coal bucket in, always saving the best pieces for the Christmas stockings. Tradition he said. You miss things when they're gone. Like he missed the men he once served with, some moved away, others moved on—as he worded it. And you watched the lines in his fingers grow deeper and darker, and the bucket grow heavier, while he guttered like old fairy lights. You watched him blink out.
And that left nowhere to hide except your mildew-scented bedroom, lined with curling clown-faced wallpaper, threadbare curtains flapping at a grimy window, sweat-stained bed sheets, and a door that wouldn't lock. The last time you stood resting your chin on the sill, you watched a robin tugging a worm from a bare patch of soil. Saw it carry its helpless prey into the overgrown wall of privet. The hedge cast a shadow so deep the grass withered into dirty brown patches. Like the nicotine stains on Dad's fingers. He'd rub his chin with them as he whistled. Long and slow. Then he'd click off the light.
Gone now is the canned merriment that pummelled you while you curled around an aching hunger, drooling at the scent of roasting chestnuts. Gone, for now, are those who jostled one another while they stepped over you, as your voice bounced unheeded off glass and stone and your battered subway cup ranneth over with rainwater and pigeon shit.
Now, the rain turns to sleet. Moustachioed tin drummers stand sentry, smirking at your frozen nose, the icicles of snot, the way you curl up tight, fingers under your armpits, round as a Christmas pudding. But God, no brandy. Dad loved brandy. He'd savour it. Long and slow.
Footsteps snap you back to the present. Sharp and purposeful. A woman in a thick wool coat and sensible shoes,collar turned up, an umbrella clutched in one leather gloved hand. She stands just far enough back to avoid dripping on you, but looks square at you, with a smile, that might just be sincere, but words begin to tumble from her mouth forcing you to cower. Cornered. You should be running, but you're trembling, your brain sluggish as a hypothermic reptile. Her words keep washing over you. She seems to be repeating them.
A hot meal. A warm bed. A good place. Good people. Food. Bed. Good people.
You sniff the air and the lights paint her—red—gold—green—red—gold—green—red—red—red—red—
Heather is a sight-impaired spoonie and working-class writer from Yorkshire. She is published by Oxford Flash Fiction, Fictive Dream, The Phare, Timberline Review and numerous others and has won or been placed in several competitions. She is also a visual artist, and lives with her husband, her books, camera and paints, and far too many balls of yarn. Find her at https://haigh19c.wixsite.com/heatherbooknook
