You groaned as some cheesy Christmas movie started. Scrambling to grab the remote, you shut off the TV entirely.
It was Christmas Eve. Before, when Marco was still around, you loved this time of year. In fact, it was your very favorite.
Things changed about one month ago, when he walked out with your infant daughter. You hadn't heard from him since, though you made countless attempts to speak with him.
Sighing, you stared at the place where your tree was supposed to be. Next to the empty area, by the fireplace, would be your stockings. Yours, Marco's, Willow's, and the dog's. Your dog had died a week ago. It was natural- he was old.
"Why'd he have to leave?" You muttered to yourself. Grabbing the half-empty bottle of vodka, you poured some into your little red shot glass.
It didn't even seem to burn much as it went down. You had grown used to the sensation, in all honesty. You weren't an alcoholic by any means, but you dud enjoy having a near-constant buzz these last few weeks. It was helping you cope.
You stared up at your calendar, reading the tiny font on the twenty-fifth day. Christmas.
Christmas was less than twelve hours away, and you had nobody. You wouldn't get to see your daughter open her first Christmas gift ever, or tear through her very first stocking. You'd never get to see Marco open the gifts that were still stacked in your closet, hidden away behind the laundry basket and shoe rack.
You sighed, pouring yourself another shot to numb the pain.