Page 128 of Don't Shoot Me Santa
“Aaron,” Wynter greeted warmly, then looked down as Chaos padded into view and gave an alert wag. Wynter crouched, scratching behind the dog’s ears. “And you too, handsome lad.” Then Lucky peeked out from Aaron’s legs. “Ah, full house tonight, eh?” He chuckled then rose.
Aaron looked up at Kenny. Kenny shrugged.
“Sorry to drop in like this,” Wynter continued, a little breathless with the cold. “Especially after… well, everything. I went by the dog shelter. They gave me your address. I hope that’s all right.”
He reached into his coat and pulled out a card. Handed it to Kenny.
Kenny took it and stilled.
The front was a blend of candlelight and choir silhouettes. But inside, beneath the printed blessings and gold ink were two photographs. Luke. Skye. Their names embossed beneath in gentle, gilded letters.
In Loving Memory.
“We’ll be holding a Christmas Eve sermon tonight,” Wynter said. “To honour them. Say their names. Tell their stories. We’d very much like you both to be there.”
Aaron rested his head on Kenny’s shoulder, brushing his lips along the soft cotton of his dressing gown. “We’ll be there.”
Kenny turned to him, offered a smile, kissed his temple, then nodded to Wynter.
The reverend beamed. “Oh, wonderful.” He clapped his hands once, warmly. “And please, bring your fur babies. All creatures great and small are welcome tonight.”
With a nod, Wynter turned and made his way back up the snow-dusted path, his black coat disappearing into the falling dusk.
Kenny shut the door behind him.
“This does mean we’ll have to get dressed,” he said into Aaron’s hair. “And you ordered for no clothes to be worn until Boxing Day.”
Aaron yawned into his shoulder. “That man said nothing about dress code. ‘All creatures great and small,’ he said. That includes your monster cock.”
“That’ll bring new meaning to wellhungby the fireplace.”
“Your jokes are getting worse.”
“Thank you.”
* * * *
The chapel was small, built from cold stone and warmed only by the dim flicker of candlelight and the scent of pine. The pews were half-filled with residents from the shelter, volunteers, a few locals, and some who had nowhere else to go. A Christmas tree stood unlit in the corner, bare but for a handmade paper star. Simple. Honest.
Kenny sat at the back beside Aaron, one hand laced in his between his legs. Chaos lay at their feet in a festive red bandana, calm and sleepy, chin on his paws. Lucky remained at home. She wasn’t ready for socialising among crowds yet. Wynter stepped up to the pulpit, adjusting the microphone. He didn’t wear robes tonight. He wore a simple black jumper, sleeves rolled at the wrists. And he looked tired, but present. Grounded.
“Thank you for being here tonight,” he began, voice mellowed to make the room lean in. “Christmas is often spoken of as a time for joy. For family. For light. But for many, it is also a time of ache. Of remembrance. And longing.”
He gazed out over the faces.
“Tonight, we honour two souls who should still be here. Luke Bennett. Skye Addams. Both young. Both brave. Both failed by systems that should have protected them. Their names will not vanish. Not into silence. Not into snow.”
Aaron exhaled beside Kenny, and Kenny gently squeezed his hand.
“Luke was seventeen,” Wynter continued. “A foster child. A boy who loved astronomy and made jokes even when he was hungry. He should have been gazing at stars tonight.”
A few breaths were heard. Someone sniffled.
“Skye was sixteen,” Wynter said. “Fierce. Kind. She used to sneak fruit into the hands of kids too scared to ask for more. She should have been alive tonight. Laughing. Wearing something bold and brilliant.”
Aaron’s throat tightened. Kenny heard it, felt it in the hitch of his breath.
“Their deaths were not a punishment. They were a failure. Of us. Of the world. But tonight, we do not speak of how they died. We speak of how they lived. Of who they were. And we promise, never again will their stories be rewritten into statistics. We will say their names. Every year. Until we are no longer needed to.”
