Being abandoned by his family every Christmas as a child had set off the downward spiral. Thirty years later, he had finally hit rock bottom.
Cassandra lay naked on the bed, her skin blotchy and bruised, the needle still hanging out her arm.
He shelled out the notes from his wallet and left them on the bedside table – the last money he had. Cassandra would kick him out when she found out he was broke. She didn’t work for nothing.
She stirred as the door creaked and he went outside. The heat dizzied him as it hit, eyes blinded by the bright light, the first daylight in how long? He scratched his grizzled face, the warm air beat his emaciated, haggard body.
The tacky festive decorations were anomalous in the dry, dusty desert land, depressing rather than uplifting. It made him think of Chicago and the old family house, brightly lit in the snowfall.
Maybe it was time to head home, if he could get over the border. The cartel were sure to be looking for him. They couldn’t allow a mule who used the product himself to get away without reprisals.
He might get one final Christmas with his family before his past caught up with him. Wouldn’t that be nice at last?
Written as part of Sunday Photo Fiction. Write a story of around 200 words based on the photo prompt given (above). Hosted by Susan Spaulding. For more details visit HERE.
To read more of the stories based on this week’s prompt, visit HERE.
Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays and a Great New Year to all, especially those who have read, liked and commented on my blog throughout the year, and have provided me with endless stories to enjoy in return. And a special mention to all those who have taken the time to buy and read my novel – thank you so much, it means so much to me. Here’s to the next year of blogging fun! Iain.