How The Bitch Stole Christmas

The crisp mountain air, balmy, was cooling after dark, bit John’s exposed skin, walking back from dinner alone. Windows were open, fan blowing. Hot shower billowing steam. Selena was on the loo, smoking a storm under a sign that said NO SMOKING $250 CLEANING FEE. Inside the $300 vintage suite, the air shimmered with an artificial warmth, but a distinct chill permeated the space. She was once a vibrant splash of color in his life, now sat hunched for what seemed hours on the toilet, her shoulders sharp beneath a sterile hotel robe. He stared at her overly tan legs. Her hair, once a cascade of deep auburn, now held a brittle quality, thinning at the temples. A faint tremor ran through her hand as she lifted a glass of iced tea, the clinking of ice cubes an insistent punctuation in the silence.  

“The Orange Chicken was perfectly done,” John offered, a hopeful lilt in his voice. He gestured towards the small dining table, laden with carryout styrofoam, the scent of rosemary and roasted garlic filling the air. “The hotel chef outdid himself. But you left halfway through the meal."

Selena’s gaze, flat and unyielding, swept over the feast. “I’m not hungry.” Her voice, raspy from decades of cigarettes and other bad things he tried not to think about, cut through the festive mood.  

John’s smile faltered. He’d spent a small fortune on this Christmas Eve dinner, a last-ditch effort to recapture some semblance of their past joy. Her favorite wine was sitting untouched in paper cups.

“But you said you loved the Xmas Eve Special,” he pressed, his brow furrowing.   

A humorless laugh escaped her. “People change, John. Or didn’t you get the memo?” She pushed herself up, her movements stiff. Her eyes, once sparkling with mischief, now held a dull, distant glaze. She walked past the table, past the tiny twinkling tree, towards the gifts scattered on the bed. Her fingers, adorned with a pair of wedding rings she claimed she had bought for herself, tore at the shopping bag, she had insisted he buy her. He reminded himself to check the marriage records.

“Selena, those are for tomorrow, under the tree, and I've got more," John began, a knot tightening in his stomach.  

She ignored him, ripping through the paper with a ferocity that surprised him. 

“Don’t you think that’s a little… rude?” John’s voice hardened.  

She merely shrugged, a dismissive flick of her wrist. “They’re just things. You can buy more.” A week earlier, he already opened his 1 gift by her command. "Now you can cook for yourself," she smirked.

His gifts to her under her tree at her home, had previously disappered.

John watched, dumbfounded. The festive spirit, already fragile, shattered into a million pieces. He walked over to the buffet, his own full belly a hollow ache. He snacked on Xmas cookies dipped by her in coffee, she stuffed in his face. The food tasted like trash.  

“You’re not going to eat any of this?” he asked, a desperate hope clinging to his words.  

She turned, her arms now laden with swindled gifts from the elaborate gift shop. “I told you. I’m not hungry. But I’ll take a doggy bag for later.”   

John stared at her, then at her nearly untouched dinner. “The whole thing?”  

“Yes, the whole thing.” Her voice held no room for negotiation.  

He packed the entire Christmas Eve dinner into hotel containers. He watched her stack the extorted gifts, the VIP dinner, eaten alone.

"I made a mistake, allowing you, to do things, that I asked you to, before marriage. No man has seen me for 7 years." Never mind her lovers in prison. "I'm a different woman now. Sober. Christian. Sex for us back then was different. It was wrong."

"Well you liked it 3 times a day for 5 hours a time, it must not have been that bad," John pointed out.

They climbed into the plush cozy bed. Selena built a pillow fort between them. Lights out. Instant sleep, it had been a long day running chores and exploring tourist traps and driving the deadly world-famous Dragon, 318 curves in 11 miles through the mountains of Tennessee and North Carolina, with over 70 biker ghosts, they quit counting. It was fun, for awhile.

At 3am she woke up. And demanded to leave.

“Where are you going with all that?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper.  

She gave him a cold, unblinking stare. “Out.” She moved towards the door, her walk surprisingly swift.  

“Wait, Selena!” John reached for her, his hand brushing her arm. “It’s Christmas Eve. We booked this for a reason. We were going to… talk. Relax. Enjoy the fresh air. Enjoy Christmas.”  

She recoiled as if burned. “Don’t touch me.” Her eyes, once pools of warmth, were now chips of ice. “I’m not in the mood for your sentimental nonsense. I was expecting another engagement ring. A big one this time."  

“You kept those other rings, then cheated 30 minutes later. For addiction. But the room, the plans, us…”  

“There is no ‘us’, John. Never was. Not like that.” She yanked the door open. “Don’t bother looking for me. Except when I need money."  

The heavy door clicked shut, leaving John alone in the antique suite, surrounded by ghosts of Christmas past, present and future. With the lingering scent of abandoned Orange Chicken and tobacco smoke. He collapsed onto the bed, the silence deafening. The wine sat, mocking him with its popped cork. He packed everything up, got dressed, walked through the chilled mountain air to his car. She stood smoking another cigarette, that was killing her. Sometimes her breathing sounded like death, with tears.

Hours later, the sun, a pale, anemic disk, rose above the gray cityscape. John found her apartment building, a sad, concrete block nestled between dilapidated homes and a railroad depot. They had planned to spend Christmas afternoon here, in her tidy abode exchanging gifts, cooking his Christmas feast of roast beast, Netflix and chill. Hoping she’d move to his mansion and never return to this place he had helped furnish. So clean because he was not allowed to eat nor get under the covers of his former bed. She ran inside with her stolen loot.

The door creaked open, the light revealing Selena, her eyes bloodshot, her hair a tangled mess. Wearing her new "gifts", the luxurious fabrics a stark contrast to her surroundings. The air inside smelled stale, a mix of mold, old cigarettes and rotten farts.

“What do you want?” she rasped, her voice thick with COPD and irritation. She farted. 

“Selena, why did you want to leave our beautiful resort before a delicious breakfast?  

She leaned against the doorframe, her posture defensive. “I wanted to go home. Where else?”  

"Our temporary home, I meant. The Resort. We had plans.”  

“Your plans, John. Not mine.” She gestured vaguely inside. “And this is my home.”  

“This? This isn’t… this isn’t what I want for you.” He glanced around the cramped, dimly lit apartment, a stark contrast to the luxurious hotel, or his mansion on the mountain. The gifts he her got her under the tree at her apartment were long gone. Before Christmas. She never had a Christmas growing up. Never had a dad. Mom lost to drugs. Grandparents tried then died. Then the drug dealers stole everything.

“What you want for me is irrelevant.” She yawned, a wide, ungraceful movement. “Now, if you’re done with your lecture, I have things to do.”  

“Things? Like what?”  

“Like living my life. And I need a car for that. I crashed my old one last week, totaled, remember? Now I need that new old car you bought me, towed. And a new muffler.”  

John blinked. What about your job?”

“Oh, I quit that. Too much stress. Im too old for stripping. After 20 years its not me anymore.” She waved a dismissive hand. “You can get me a new car. A decent one. Now pay my rent early, too. And my bills. Everything. It’s the least you can do.”  

“The least I can do?” John’s voice rose, a tremor of anger entering it after 13 years of this bullshit. “I bought you a Mercedes, once, for Christmas. I’ve bought you two engagement rings, Selena, you cant even remember. I’ve proposed twice, as you begged me to. And each time you ran away, cheated, and sold the rings!”  

She sniffed, a theatrical gesture. “Engagement rings? What good are those? I need a wedding ring. A proper one. You never even gave me a wedding ring.”  

“We were never married!”  

“Exactly! Because you never gave me a proper ring!” She crossed her arms, her expression a mask of indignation. “You just expected me to say yes with some sparkly piece of shit.”  

“They were diamonds, Selena! Significant diamonds worth millions over a lifetime!”  

"Diamonds are common. I want a bigger commitment.” Her voice hardened. “And I want my new old car fixed. And I want my rent paid. And I want you to stop bothering me, except when I tell you to.”  

“You won’t even come to my house and clean or cook dinner? Nor cook Christmas dinner here,  with me. Can I even get one plate of leftovers I paid for?"

“Cook? Clean? I’m not your maid, John. I’m a woman who deserves to be taken care of. And you’re just not doing enough. No Christmas dinner for you, it's all gone. My aunt died today. That's all I care about." She began to close the door.  

“Selena, God bless, she's an angel in Heaven having fun with her kids." "I love you," she replied automatically, then slammed her door shut with surprising force.  

He stood there for a long moment, the cold seeping into his bones, the stale air of her apartment and chemical Fabreeze fog clinging to his lungs. He heard the click of a lock, then another. He looked down at his empty hands, the phantom weight of two discarded engagement rings heavy on his conscience. 

The stolen Christmas dinner, the stolen gifts, the refusal of his touch, the lightening of his bank account, all of it coalesced into a single, bitter truth. The Grinch stole Christmas. Selena, the vibrant, sexy woman he once loved, sort of, was gone, replaced by this bitter, demanding stranger, a Grinch who had stolen not just Christmas, but every last piece of hope he had. Recovery from addiction and ODs, TBI, BPD and DID, and decades of trauma and all her crushed dreams, is a bitch, especially without B-vitamins. 

"I bet she didnt take her bitch pills," he muttered under his breath. He turned and walked away, leaving her to her solitary, stolen feasts and the cold comfort of her demands. Even her kids were sick of her shit today. The city, indifferent to his broken heart, continued its silent ignorance around him. On Christmas Day. 

"That's why you have backup," he smiled.

Fun with A.i..