Ok, this is the last of the stories I needed to catch up on the Your Photo Story prompt blog. I hope y'all enjoy this one. Thought it was appropriate to do a seasonal piece.
Charlie stared at the Christmas tree, tears streaming down his cheeks. Carla watched him, not sure how to fix things. That no good bastard could have at least stopped by here on his way to visit The Whore, she thought, twisting the phone cord in her hand savagely. She had been trying to reach Steve for two hours with no luck.
“What was that you said, honey?” she asked Charlie, not catching his whisper.
Wiping a tear, he said, “Nothing, Mom, I was talking to Santa.”
Carla sighed, knowing he was asking Santa to send his dad home for Christmas again. He’d ask the same thing of every Santa they saw in the mall and on TV. She had found it was hard to explain to a six year old that Santa couldn’t always deliver what you wanted. He was insistent Santa would come through because he always got the gifts he wanted each year.
A terrific noise outside drew their attention. “What the hell?” Carla wondered, stepping in front of Charlie who was reaching to open the front door. “Let me go first, honey.”
Carla inched the door open slowly, peeking around the corner. “Shit!” she muttered, spying her ex-husband sprawled on the front porch, passed out cold.
“Dad!” Charlie shouted and rushed around her, stooping at his father’s side.
Carla knelt also, trying to figure out how she was going to get Steve inside, when Charlie spoke, mischief lighting his eyes. “I guess dad couldn’t handle riding in Santa’s sleigh.”
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