I settled back into the barstool and raised my beer to my lips, chugging the drink until there wasn’t any left in the bottle. Jerking my chin at the bartender, I indicated for him to get me another. I’d been here for two hours – he knew my drink and had it to me fast because he also knew I’d tip him for that, and in a city that didn’t do tips, and in a job that didn’t pay well, he was out to make every last cent he could. I knew that because this bar happened to be my local and I frequented it daily at the moment.
Christmas fucking time.
The time of happy families and presents and love and time together…
Time.
People had no fucking clue how little time they may have left on this Earth, and they pissed that time away on mindless pursuits and petty arguments that, when all was said and done, didn’t mean a damn thing.
I knocked back more drink, letting old memories take over my thoughts.
My mother smiling as she served our traditional roast meal for lunch on Christmas day, my father settled in his armchair with his beer as he watched the cricket on Boxing Day, and my younger brother, Simon, playing with his lego. He fucking loved that lego, even as he got older.
Yeah, Christmas at the McAllister’s was all about the food, the cricket and the goddamn lego.
Fuck.
I lifted my drink to my lips and finished it.
Why the fuck do you do this to yourself every fucking year?
My hand squeezed the glass as I placed it back on the counter. Staring into it, I thought about that question.
Why?
Fuck knew, but what I did know was that as much as I had tried to move past what had happened to them, the murder of your family wasn’t something you ever got the fuck over.
And when that murder had taken place the day after Boxing Day, the memories of cricket and lego and food didn’t surface quite as easily as the memories of blood and horror that a murder scene never let you forget.
Yeah, the gift that keeps on fucking giving.
I’d thought this year might be different. Madison and her Christmas party had almost dragged me away from my yearly ritual of trying to wipe the memories out with alcohol every day leading up to the anniversary, but in the end, nothing ever dragged me from it.
Storm might be my family now, but sometimes, even family isn’t enough in life.
Sometimes, all you have is you and the choices you’ve made and the bed you choose to lie in.
And I’d made my bed years ago.