Christmas can be murder
When Norman Pierce reached the Upper East Side well after midnight, the streets were practically deserted, except for the occasional couple that passed by arm in arm, and a few loners in need of some fresh air and a little solitude, despite the bitter winter chill….Red tinsel had been playfully strewn around nearby lampposts, so that they resembled gigantic candy canes, left out in the cold, lest people forget that the Holidays — along with the misery of forced intimacy — were in full swing.
He skulked, concealed by the darkness of a nearby street corner. Snow fell swiftly, silently, transforming the otherwise grimy streets into a pristine wonderland that radiated child-like wonder. Norman had a real knack for blending in with the shadows so well most people never noticed him until he pounced…Merry Fucking Christmas!
He really should have been home, sound asleep in the roach-infested two-bedroom apartment on Avenue A in the belly of the beast known as Alphabet City, but he was a light sleeper and his parents’ arguing kept him up most nights.
Norman would slam his bedroom door shut the second they started shouting; he still heard his father attack his mother with abusive insults through paper-thin, plaster walls. Norman closed his eyes and pictured the tragically comical scene.
