Page 2 of Don't Shoot Me Santa
But he’s not broken. Not yet.
And because of that, he has been chosen.
Santa’s boots crack over the frost-slick pavement, steps reduced only by the hush of distant tide. The padded suit sways with the movement. Cheap velvet, damp from salt-wind and sweat, clinging in places it shouldn’t. The beard scratches over skin, coarse and artificial, but the discomfort is important. Sacred, even. A kind of penance.
Not for guilt.
For purpose.
Calling.
Let others dress in red and white for spectacle. This is for sacrament. Saint Nicholas, Father Christmas, Krampus. Every myth had its reckoning. A judge in winter’s cloak. A harbinger of cold mercy.
But this Santa doesn’t ho-ho-ho.
This Santa hushes.
Brings the stillness after the last carol fades. The hush beneath fresh snowfall. A saviour, whether they understand it or not.
The silent night.
And the island is quiet tonight.
That’s why Santa is here. Why, even after the holy ten on the mainland, the cycle won’t close. Because they keep appearing. Coming out. The ones too soft for this world. Too loud in who they are. Too lost to know they need saving. The ones who think they can run from who they are. Well, they can’t. There’s no running.
There is only the sacrament ofpeace.
And on this floating relic of England’s forgotten parts, tourists only see the cream teas and castle ruins. But Santa sees the truth beneath the postcard gloss. What people become when no one’s watching.
And no one watches in winter.
The boy looks up, face pale beneath smudged makeup. Lips cracked, lashes crusted with old mascara. He’s a boy of the night. Used and abused. Obvious by the eyes. Sharp. Defensive. Intelligent. And he found his way into the wrong crowd. The wrong time. The wrong place.
Good.
It means he’ll understand.
“Cold night,” Santa muses, pitching the fake voice with the right note of comfort and cadence. Practiced. The voice one would expect jolly old Santa to have.
The boy reads the moment for what it is. He won’t be threatened. How could he be? Nothing here is threatening to him. And he’s had to become fluent in threat detection. Learned to read predatory men like tea leaves. And he’s learned the hard way not to drink anything too bitter.
The boy knows Santa, of course. Even the person beneath the façade.
Notthisversion. Beard and boots, benevolence stitched into polyester and seasonal cheer. Not the smile made for cameras. But the truth beneath it. He’s probably been offered safety with one hand before only for it to be taken away by the other. People promising rescue wrapped in rules. Redemption by clipboard. Bycouncil.
But this boycan’tbe helped.
He can only beredeemed.
There is no chaos here.
No madness.
Nocrime.
This is a service. A mercy carefully delivered.
Wrapped in ribbon.
