Holly Season for the Unborn Son
Madness does not come to beings like me; it arranges itself patiently, selecting which shards of borrowed memories and mismatched flesh will rise into thought. It gathers its senseless fragments into quiet configurations, deciding what my stitched mind will be able to bear. In that thin instant before the world fractured, I felt myself—an assembled filament of tremor and hunger—aware just long enough to recognise the blasphemous miracle of my existence. Then came the rupture: light devouring its own creation, silence collapsing upon its echo, until only one question clung to me like a final thread—Where am I, and to whom do I still belong? I clawed my way through the drenched nightmare of this body he fashioned for me, my fingers grazing the bullet lodged deep within the patchwork he once called “life.” That small metal truth fastened me to the earth more honestly than he ever had. It was not death, nor duty, that held me—no, it was the ache of unfinished tenderness, the yearning fo...
