Christmas.

Merry Fucking Christmas.

I celebrated with a small bottle of whiskey and a Twix. I was hoping for something more substantial but small things are easier to pocket than big bottles. The dude running the place looked stoned, maybe angry he had to spend his Christmas working. Made it easy to steal.

Twirling the gun around my finger I watched it catch the morning light, watching my wrist swivel around. I finally got sick of the plaster cast and managed cut it off. Took a while. My arm was small pale, smelled weird. Hurt to move.

I took a swig of the whiskey and set the plastic bottle on the ground next to me. The last time I got something nice for the holiday I was five and was told that I would be getting a younger brother. I had thought he'd come in the mail, in a box, or something. First time I saw him he was in a dirty blanket. He was the best Christmas gift I'd ever gotten.

Since then it was a punch to the gut or face, or both. While other kids were ripping open gifts, I was nursing a black eye or groaning on the floor.

I unwrapped the Twix bar and shoved one in my mouth. Took another swig of the cheap whiskey and finished the last of the candy bar. Some kinda holiday. Merry Christmas.

Then it was late afternoon.

Gifts would be opened and Christmas dinner would be eaten. I always wondered what a real Christmas dinner would be like. I usually went without, or made myself a sandwich and a drink.

A fierce wind blew through. I shivered and decided to move on. My ankle throbbed, I tried to ignore it, but today it wasn't going to let me. Biting my tongue I grabbed up the plastic whiskey bottle and shoved it in my backpack and took a walk.

The city was empty. It was Christmas. Of course it would be.

My hands clenched. I wanted to punch someone, something. Instead felt the gun in my hand. Shooting someone wouldn't solve anything, but it might make me feel better. Walking around helped my temper cool off a bit, but I still wanted to watch someone fucking die.

Shivering under my sweatshirt I continued, the whiskey bottle now empty.

I hoped some stupid bastard would come my way, hoped someone dumb enough would run into me. Ask for a fight or something so I could get in a few punches. Anything to get my blood pumping. Staring at the ground as I walked, I counted cracks in the sidewalk, trying to get my mind off the day. Then I felt someone brush past me and heard footsteps slow.

Looking I turned around and glared at the kid. He looked at me. I looked at him.

He didn't care anymore.

"Watch where you're going, fucker," I snarled, letting the hood fall off my head. I wanted him to see the scar on my face, wanted him to feel as miserable as I was.