Christmas Dues

Christmas had always been his favorite time of year. Going out with his father to pick the perfect Fraser Fir, careful not to get sap all over his gloves. Stringing the lights with the rest of the family - music playing in the background, everyone singing to the songs they enjoyed most. The smell of the house - fresh and inviting, filled to the brim with the scent of pine, spiced apples and pears, cookies fresh out of the oven, waiting on the oven rack to be devoured. He loved opening the advent calendars every night, curious what shape he'd reveal - especially when he'd forget and have to catch up - a perfect excuse to eat even more candy before getting tucked into bed.

The house always felt warm. Not only from the smells, extravagant meals, and presents stuffed under the tree, but from the blooms that lingered in the air. Even though the tree was off in the living room, everywhere he'd walk, the hallway, the dining room, it all radiated a hazy glow, like candles had been spread throughout - welcoming him into each room, making sure he never felt alone.

Of course he loved Christmas morning, when he was allowed to attack the presents. Dive into them, fingers clawing at the wrapping paper that his mother had spent so much time on, smoothing out the edges, taping down corners, placing bows on delicately - only to be hungrily torn apart. His parents always joked that when he was older, Christmas morning would take longer, with each present being handed to him at the right moment and the story behind each told. It all sounded well and good, but he wasn't older - that would come later - so his massacre continued until no present was left shrouded.

There was only one time of Christmas he didn't enjoy - now.

The time when the family stopped by. It wasn't that he didn't enjoy his aunts and uncles, but it was the estranged, older family that managed to crawl out of the woodwork that one time of year. The group with the heavily applied makeup, beehive hairdos, offensive aftershave, that were supported by walkers. He'd hide out in his room for as long as he could. Tinkering with his new toys, playing music, locked away. If he made it seem like he wasn't there, maybe they'd believe it. But that was never the case. He'd always hear them enter the house - their cackling laughs echoing up the stairs. He'd smell their perfume, pungent, seeping under the frame of his door. It reminded him of flowers picked a long time ago, left out in the sun to dry out and die. It smelled old.

Every year, he'd end up in the inevitable position that he now found himself in - his cheeks squished firmly between the gnarled fingers of some great aunt. He always wanted to pull away, turn his head, shake free, but those fingers always surprised him - as old and fragile as they looked, he swore they were made of iron, locked like a vice.

And there was nothing he could do but wait.

Just wait and wait for those bright pink, puckered lips to descend upon him.