In dreams, could she see?
He knelt beside her. "Merry Christmas," he whispered. "Freuliche Weinachten, meiner Damen."
He took her by the hand, kissed it-
-and she stirred, muttering nonsensically.
Carefully, he slid the present into her grasp.
Settling, she cradled the plush teddy bear.
Santa stood, pausing for a moment to consider his slumbering beauty. He turned and left her behind.
Entering the living room, he sighed. He would not see her again for an entire year. A whole year--sometimes life wasn’t fair.
A gust heralded the approaching storm and fluffy snow blew through the open window. Better close it, he thought, crossing the tiny room with two giant steps. Hands on the sash, he paused to admire the view. The lake—encased in white—looked luminescent.
He reached for the handle.
From the apartment building across the street came the sounds of a ruckus and a flurry of movement. Leaning closer to the opening, he could just hear heavy objects falling over, glass and pottery shattering, and violent cursing. It had begun to snow and the fluffy white curtain obscured his vision. Straining to see, he couldn’t be sure what was happening.
A burglary in progress, he thought, or a domestic dispute-
A spark flashed in the darkness. Fiery pain tore through his shoulder as the violent impact spun him around.
I've been shot, he realized as he collapsed to the floor. There’s hot lead in my shoulder. Although he kept his hand pressed over the wound, blood crept through his fingers. A trail of crimson crept down the furry white lining of his red suit.
I’d better not stand up, he reasoned as he lied beneath the window. With his good arm, he clawed at the carpet and dragged himself across the floor. Inching toward the door, he thought I can't die here-
He crawled into the hall, wobbled to his feet, and slumped against the wall. "Bloody...job security..." he whispered. "I should get worker’s comp."
The stairway looked steep, as if it led deep into the underground and beyond. Around him the walls pulsated and the corridor spun in a dizzying blur. "But I'm...not supposed to be...mortal-" Santa pitched forward-
# # #
He opened his eyes. The room smelled like old, stale urine and the acrid odor of ammonia burned his nostrils. He put a gloved hand over his mouth. Studying his surroundings, he figured he might be in the basement, or maybe even beneath it. There were holes in the walls ringed by water damage--dark circles around harvested eye sockets. Years of graffiti inundated the mold swathed plaster. The toilet had overflowed a long time ago; it sat--fractured and useless--leaking biological waste from every crack. A tail-possibly belonging to a rat-trailed out of the bowl and hung down towards the wet concrete floor. Rust-corroded pipes ran from one end of the room to the other, like empurpled limbs swollen by massive blood clots.
Someone had unbuttoned his jacket, exposing his hairy chest. The gunshot wound had disappeared. "Huh," he said, as he probed the area with his fingers. No torn flesh, no pain--not one indication he had been shot.
Across the room, a man sat, his legs pulled tight against his chest. He clenched a rifle in his shaky hands. Judging from the look on his face-an unpleasant face, to be sure, unshaven, the wide staring eyes of an addict-he was one angry man. He wore a ratty pair of jeans, an unbuttoned checkerboard flannel shirt, and black leather boots.
“You must be cold,” Nicholas said.
The man only glared.
“Are you the one who shot me?”