Snapshot. The Ghost of Christmas Past, floating ephemerally like a dandelion on the breeze, hovers beside a smaller version of himself struggling to open a bedroom window warped with age and painted closed. The muffled sounds of Elvis having a blue-hoo-hoo Christmas creep underneath the door, but he’s not alone. Mingled is the incoherent but distinct chorus of violent argument somewhere below. It is from this the child is trying to escape, casting furtive glances at the door as though a creature of horror would be upon him at any moment.
He whirls away from the window, ears ringing with an acrid slap rising through the carpeted floor and a sharp wail of pain. He spins tight circles, hands on ears, mouth open in a scream but nothing comes, nothing but the cries beginning below.
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