Christmas Story

by Karen Goldrick

T’was the night before Christmas, and all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse… so why couldn’t she sleep?

Dr Fran Le Guin rolled over yet again, kicking what remained of her sheets onto the floor. Who needed sheets anyway, the heavy humid air stifled her as effectively as any blanket. She debated the wisdom of fetching yet another glass of cold filtered springwater. Beside her on the lamptable, stood a growing collection of now lukewarm glasses sitting in the halo of their own condensation.

Sitting up, she flicked on the light, and grabbed a box of Nicorette patches from the drawer. She opened one, stuffed it down the opening of the black plastic inhaler, and drew back as hard as possible.

Nothing.

With an impatient sigh she stuck a fresh one on her left arm, just below two others, and rubbed her hand across her eyes.

A cigarette. There was just one left. For emergencies only. It was probably four years old now, a Camel extra mild picked up somewhere in the South of Spain. Wrapped in gladwrap in the top kitchen drawer. Hopefully not too stale. And this was an emergency, wasn’t it.

The Doctor stood, and shook her head to clear the vertigo from the sudden movement. Perhaps those Nicorettes worked some after all. The flickering of the Christmas lights lit the stairs, so she didn’t bother with the lamp. The tiny lights burned the retinas of her tired eyes, leaving faded coloured spots which seemed to fill the room. She noticed a couple of the lights weren’t working properly.

Funny that.

She hadn’t noticed it before.

In fact none of the lights on the right side of the tree seemed to be working. A tall wide swadge of lights missing, almost like the silouette of a man.

And then the silouette spoke.