Christmas Eve

Picture taken from Pinterest


For me it was yet another day. I got home late feeling ghastly –so worn out from work–, only to find out that those wretches had laid again a table for three and ignored me. I had to help myself, cutlery and everything. I found them in the kitchen, crying helplessly around their mother. They ought to feel ashamed though: how could they disregard me when I only sacrifice for them from dawn to dusk. This is enough: they need to be taught a good lesson. Soon they are to find out who Stephen Wilcox is. And they’ll learn to respect me.


The woman in the dirty apron tried desperately to soothe down her offspring:

–Hold on to me, kids. And pray for that thing to leave.

Once again, they had to put up with those yelling voices. Let alone the dragging of chairs, drawers that would open and close randomly, doors slamming and a whole array of flickering lights.

Steve would know what to do, she thought.

If only he wasn’t dead.


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