K. A. Roy (she/her) is a queer writer who haunts the suburbs of Chicago alongside her family and three cats. Her work has been featured at Malarkey Books, Spindle House, Mystic Owl, and Black Hare Press. Find her at kayleighroywrites.com
It was right there in front of me, the last box on the shelf, one corner crumpled. I’d been on the lookout for weeks. The app showed two in stock when I checked after work, heart thumping with possibility. I had driven at speeds double the limit to nab the videogame console, praying the whole way.
I beelined for it now, arm outstretched.
A swirl of honey blonde hair passed through my vision and when my path cleared again, the shelf sat empty. My legs seized, freezing me in place. I stood bewildered for a second. Then I thought of Logan, with his late father’s dark curls hanging in his eyes. Logan, who never asked for much. Whose request from Mall Santa was for his father to come back, to the shock of everyone in hearing distance, and to my mortification.
I couldn’t bring my husband back, but I could do this.
“Hey, give that back! It’s mine!”
The woman hurried away, box clutched in both arms. I could see it on either side of her slim frame. I lunged and snatched for it, but she pivoted and ran for checkout, calling back, “I got it first!”
I waited in my car until she emerged, victorious. Smug.
Her house was everything I expected it to be. Twice the size of mine, wrapped like a gift in icicle lights. A giant inflatable snowman waved on the lawn. There had been no second vehicle in her garage when she pulled in, so I slid out of my car, fists clenched tightly.
In the cover of night, I watched behind a tree as she strode across the walkway to her front stoop. She set the console down to unlock her door and I was on the move, aiming to snatch the box before she stepped inside. The yard was vast. She was across the threshold before I hit the stoop. The door swung in her wake. I kicked into high gear, sprinting, and my palm smacked against the door just before it found home.
I let myself in.
The woman screamed.
“Give it to me,” I said.
She clung to the box as though it was her own child. I reached for it with both hands. She stumbled back, still shrieking. I hardly cared. The gift was meant for my Logan. I wouldn’t disappoint him.
“Get out!” she screamed. “Get out of my house!”
“Not without that console,” I said. All I wanted was that damn box!
I wrapped my fingers around the edges and yanked. She held strong, her tanned skin a mask of horror, her mouth open wide as she screamed. I was bigger, and more determined. With all my might, I pulled, and the box slid from her grasp and into mine. I had won. No reason to stay now, to let her study my face a moment longer. I turned, taking a step toward the open door where the cold winter air rushed in.
My head snapped back. She had grabbed my ponytail, her fingers twisted in my dry strands. I staggered, then swung, turning in an arc with the box. It collided with her temple. The thud it made upon contact echoed in the foyer, but the secondary smash of her skull into the corner of the narrow table overtook the sound. She crumpled to the tile, her eyes wide and glassy. Blood, darker than the Santa’s hat that wobbled atop the table, began to pool out around her, staining her hair and the cream-colored tile beneath.
I made sure to shut the door behind me. When I got to my car and gently placed my gift on the passenger seat, pride washed over me. I had done it. I had saved Christmas. The box was a little mashed in two places now, but that wouldn’t matter to Logan.
I couldn’t wait to see the light in his eyes when he opened his present on Christmas morning.
~ fin ~
K. A. Roy (she/her) is a queer writer who haunts the suburbs of Chicago alongside her family and three cats. Her work has been featured at Malarkey Books, Spindle House, Mystic Owl, and Black Hare Press. Find her at kayleighroywrites.com
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