by Cristina Jurado
Black snow, the same black as the night sky.
Lilly shivers, not because of the cold, not because of ice needles carving shelter for themselves in her bare foot.
Nothing so poetic. Just the withdrawal.
“Not to worry”, she thinks, “Father Christmas will provide.”
The bastard will deliver her fix of Snowflakes tonight. Millions of doses, all over the planet, addicts of the world joyfully stoned.
Peace and Goodwill to the world, and drugs with pretty names.
Rudolf is what Julius injects himself with. Side effects include a burning sensation in his nose.
Randy fell for Mistletoe out of high school. The result of years of consumption is the customary protuberance on the skull, making it look like an aborted reindeer antler.
Cooper used to get high on Carols until her brain switched off. Now she vegetates in a state clinic, connected to some machines until doctors decide there are no more organs worth salvaging.
Lilly shivers. The black pain is a familiar presence: the metal worm picking at her brain.
“Father Christmas, bring me m’ dope”.
The house looms like a pop-up from a children’s book of ghost stories. The façade is deep dark, like dried blood.
She has brought ginger cookies for Father Christmas. The door is a few feet away, the loud sounds of loaded junkies swirling behind it. Her dose is there, premier quality, the one night Father Christmas gives away.
* * *
At sunrise, her frozen body lies in front of the door, surrounded by ginger crumbs.
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