Hail beat against the
windows as Chloe knelt on the living room carpet in front of the
fire. They'd moved so late in the year that the house was still
filled with boxes three days before Christmas. She unwrapped a
figurine from its cocoon of tissue and stared at it, racking her
brain to recall the ugly leering imp with its hammer and pillowcase.
“Dad?”
“What?” His voice
was fain from the downstairs kitchen.
“When did we get the
ugly little imp tree decoration?”
“I don't know what
you mean, darling.”
“This.” She raised
the figure to the room camera. “Ow.”
“What's up?”
She sucked her thumb.
“I pricked myself on a nail.”
“Careful, now.” The
soft voice was not her fathers, but a tall, dark man in an expensive
suit. “You don't want to hurt yourself.”
“Who the feck are
you?”
“I'm a...” He
paused, scratching at his five o'clock shadow. “A sort of djinn.
Genie, I mean. What's your first wish?”
“That's it could be
Christmas every day.”
“Done.” He clicked
his fingers and smiled.
***
She unwrapped a
figurine from its cocoon of tissue
***
“Tetanus, I'm
afraid.” The nurse marked Chloe's records. “Persistent vegetative
state.”
No comments:
Post a Comment