Another Day called Christmas

Another day called Christmas

Close the door to the outside world, where carol-singers fill the night
sky with their voices and the Salvation Army Band fill my heart with
emotion.

As I walk home I peep in at cosy households with decorated trees
proudly displayed in the window so passers-by like me can admire them
and wonder what Christmas would be like in their house.

I love the frost, the hope of snow on Christmas day.

Twinkle lights everywhere and children gasping with delight. Hustle and
bustle. Mankind shoving each other out of the way in the supermarket.
No season of Good Will in there either. I think I am slightly late. I
hope you wont be cross.

At home I wipe coffee from the walls where it has splattered like dirty
raindrops and feel it sticky in my hair, dark stains on my clothes. I
blink coffee tear drops from my eyes where you threw the cup at me and
attempt to mop it from the carpet, whilst you watch. It smells sweet
and sickly. The mug has smashed and there are little shards of it
everywhere, embedded in the carpet pile. I cut my finger on a piece and
blood bubbles up and drops onto my jeans like a single red Christmas
berry. For a second, I watch the stain darken and spread
outwards.

Our Christmas tree is on its side on the floor where you kicked it,
baubles smashed. A tangle of tinsel. You press your fist against my
head, rubbing your knuckles across my forehead.

Weary from it all, I go to bed with coffee still in my hair, crying
into my pillow - not because of the vile things you have done but with
bewilderment at why.

As my head sinks deeper into my pillow and I drift in and out of sleep,
I remember twinkle-lights winking merrily at me, lovingly wrapped
presents under the tree, crackers, selection boxes and the smell of
turkey roasting. I think I smile when I am dreaming.

I used to love Christmas. But not in this house.

It's just another day.