Christmas Crackers

In the near darkness of the room, Donnie looked up at the clock, the second hand ticked around slowly to the top.

It struck midnight.

‘Happy bloody Christmas,’ he said and collapsed face-down onto his bed in frustration.

On the one-hand, he’d been lucky: he could have still been out there delivering presents. Carol had introduced the team to the internet and basically made Santa redundant.

It suited Donnie down to the ground.

He knew he had done the right thing. He understood it completely. He hadn’t done it just for Carol, he’d done it for everyone.

He’d also done it for himself. For what would the joy of being whole be compared to the guilt – however small – of the sacrifice he would have had to have made.

‘Bugger,’ he said with considerable feeling and kicked downwards on the mattress.

It could all be over now. He could feel safe and whole for the first time in his life. No more jumps; no more running… owned by some bizarre outer-worldly collector and played with in unnatural ways.

Ewww, he thought to himself.

The darkness of depression rushed up to greet him like an old friend.

Donnie rolled onto his back and took a deep breath, staring sardonically at the ceiling.

‘O…kay,’ he said, then had a sudden unexpected thought. ‘K.’

He thrust a hand into his pocket where it found a small bag and retrieved it. He held it before his eyes.

Inside the tiny self-sealing pouch was a white powdery substance.

Donnie pulled the zip-lock open and inhaled the contents harshly…

…and brightened… and floated… and…

Bzornt!

He groaned feeling like his head was the victim of a friendly-fire incident and instinctively felt between his legs.

‘Ewww,’ he exclaimed with Daisy’s voice which had a tone in the lower-levels of revulsion and shook the liquid from her hand, ensuring it was as far away as anatomically possible.

Click to see the next installment: The return of the Lost Gavel

Thanks to Wayne for wisdom on the  behaviour of children

South Yarra, December 2005.