01/12/2025
My flash fiction submission for their competition
The tree looked naked once all the ornaments were smashed. That made two of them. Samira didn’t remember at what point she’d lost her proverbial s**t and ripped the clothes from her body. Was it after the snide remark about taking an extra portion of potatoes? Or perhaps when her father in-law muttered about hormones. Either way. Rage exploded through her like fire catching in a chimney; a whoosh of upwards energy consuming everything in its pathway. Such a shame. This was their Christmas of making a go of it. Putting the year behind them. The affair, the miscarriage, the f**k-it-life-is-hard of it all. Self-harm scars a reminder, there for all to see; glistening like miniature rows of silver tinsel in the flickering firelight. Samira took a deep breath. In. Out.
She’d role-played with her therapist how to cope with the stress of an in-laws Christmas, predicting something bad would happen. What were the coping techniques she was prescribed? Distraction? Yes. If things got too much, change the subject, change the energy. Offer to serve dessert, or clear plates from the table. Anything to break a pattern of behaviour designed to make her uncomfortable.
Turning, Samira conjured a smile. Walking back to the table she picked up her napkin; moving to tuck it into her collar then realising, the collar was no longer there. Her clothes were scattered around the fallen tree, where she’d torn them off. Placing the napkin meekly on her lap, she regarded the collection of aghast faces around the table. The orange paper crown from her cracker lay crinkled on the placemat in front of her. Samira picked it up, lightly popped it on her head. Better than nothing. Beaming brightly at Paul’s family, she cleared her throat. ‘Ok,’ Samira trilled. ‘Shall I serve dessert?’
̇ti̇ng
