Scribbles and Drabbles

#6 Angel

There was a star on top of the tree. It made the cold bite of homesickness more visceral than ever. It snapped at the tips of his toes and fingers and made his teeth ache. Only the warmth of the gingerbread latte in his chest fought off the impending rush of sadness that was sure to come. Once the feelings of the nostalgia faded and he was at home alone in the grey empty room, it would flood in uncontrollably.

One year, he'd decorated. The first year he'd been ... away from home. A plastic tree with plastic decorations. Thinking about it, even that he'd made sure to put an angel on top despite the tackiness of the one he had found. Cheap pound store tinsel pinned in awkward lengths around the room and snowflake stickers pressed to the windows so the light passed through them. He hadn't had much money at that point but he had done his best to get in the holiday mood. He'd invited his friends to come on Christmas eve. Christmas day was too hard after all. most of them still had family who would talk to them, who cared about them enough to ensure they weren't alone on the happiest day of the year.

None of them had come. He had sat alone at the table with a chicken dinner fully prepared as excuses poured in over his phone. Hangover. Needed to travel early to make a family meal. Something had come up. Feeling sick. He hadn't taken the decorations down as much as he had torn them down. A sobbing mess as the last hint of childish magic disappeared.

The blood had taken a long time to get out of the rug.

He had thrown out the tree and tinsel, the baubles and the snowflake stickers. But not the angel. It wasn't his angel. It wasn't the handmade glass figure that had decorated the top of his family tree for the first seventeen years of his life. A vintage piece from Germany that had been handed out from generation to generation. It was beautiful. He spent many nights as a child looking at it as his grandmother told old stories, heart full of awe. It wasn't his angel but throwing out any angel was almost impossible in the season.

A few years later, Anthone was used to the Christmas season hurting. Ignoring days like today where he wasn't working, he did his best to avoid the whole thing. He took another long sip of his cup, watching the people outside the coffee shop window.

It was warm and bright. The orange hue of lights making the world tolerable if only a moment. The daggers of winter held at bay by happiness and joy for all those who still felt it. Ice was pretty and fascinating, hiding the cruel darkness from the world. Scents of burning fire, gingerbread and chocolate filled the shop as several carefully placed scent had been placed. All to make the shop feel comfortable.

He didn't want to leave this moment, this spot. He didn't want to go back to his grey home. He gulped and placed his cup back on the table and checked the time. Another hour before the shop closed. He settled more on his seat and tapped his fingers against the table, not really thinking as he basked in the warmth.

Teenagers entered the shop, loud, bursting with life and happiness. Anthone didn't take much notice until one paused next to him. "Anthone?" a voice said hesitantly.

Krish took after their grandfather more than Anthone did, a cool fawn colour with pink undertones that spoke of a heritage more complicated than simple British. Anthone mostly passed as a white for all intense purposes. The idea he had any other heritage was foreign to most people but then again, a quarter Indian well masked from untrained eyes. The fact it was his mother's father too meant his surname was British too, Baxor.