Damn! What a lovely holiday.

December in Motton was a chilly, shivering month. Slough of cold, snow-draped wind gusted dangerously, leaving a blurry, misty ambiance. The road was sheathed with a three-inch high snow floor, deserted, suffused with blobs of faint streetlights that tried to accentuate the obscured beauty of the town.

The time was edging past seven-thirty in the evening when Richard Wayne dawdled through the snow-filled road, puffing out a white-blanketed air of disgruntlement. He was clad in a heavy, dark hoodie, and his face was barely perceivable in the blobs of lighting. He walked with a limp, bending with every step, trudging, wishing he didn’t have to make the journey he had just embarked on.

He held a bottle of whiskey in hand, his misery accentuated as a verb and subject accentuated a sentence. Richard Wayne used to be a soldier, and he could vividly remember the time he fought off insurgents in the city of Mosul. It wasn’t long ago he contended with this disheartening nightmare. The horrible sight of men belittling men with a different worldview of life.

As he trudged slowly through the lonely street, he restrained himself from accommodating the thoughts of his experience in Mosul. He had taken a bullet on his knee as a parting gift, ensuring a forced retirement. Only, it was easy to think that being a soldier was his escape from reality. He had been divorced by his wife and ostensibly abandoned. But his engagement with the army had made him less susceptible.

It was a requisite distraction that curbed the loneliness he now mingled with. He held this thought with a bit of regret, thinking back on the little things he could have done differently. Perhaps he could have shown Hannah, his ex-wife, a bit of love, a bit of care, a bit of the little things that made life meaningful. Perhaps he should have written back frequently to her as his colleagues used to do to their loved ones. And perhaps he could have swallowed his pride and apologized when he noticed his life was falling apart. It had to take a bullet on his knee to buttress the ineptitude that engulfed his everyday life.

Now he had no one. There was no one in his apartment to kiss him and remind him of the loveliness of true romance. December exemplified the loneliness that gripped him tightly on the neck. December was the one time he thought about the things he could have done differently. Watching people travel to spend time with their loved ones inflicted him with a negative nostalgia. These days the town of Motton was mostly deserted, with most of the residents traveling to the city of Maine to spend time with their loved ones. It was a feat they discussed like a tradition. And oftentimes, he had heard them talk about the peculiarities of their yearly experiences from a near distance. Only, sometimes he had the last laugh. The rate of burglary on festive holidays had heightened spectacularly. Most of the travelers returned to apartments devoid of most of their belongings, and the excitements were mostly short-lived. He could swear he had heard weird noises a few times as he caroused in his loneliness. He had heard the rip-roaring sound of celebration emanating from the lips of excited men as they dragged stolen items in vans. In any case, he had minded his business. And despite the preponderance of reports made to the police, the rate of burglary had simply continued to increase.

Richard uncapped the stopper and took small slugs of whiskey to stave off the cold that afflicted him. He was closing in on his apartment, and a faint flush of reprieve swept through his face. Moments later, he reached the threshold of his house, huffing and puffing loudly—exuding a pitiable look. When he opened the door, he heard the faint sound of jubilation from the next apartment. Richard sensed the sound wafted out from the apartment of Mr. Beemer. An old grandpa that looked forward to the holidays, like Christians look forward to the second coming of Christ. Mr. Beemer had continually traded off his possessions for the luxury of meeting his loved ones. Perhaps he realized that his presence would do nothing to stave off the thieving propensities of the burglars. Richard had seen the expression of hurt on his face every time he returned to an apartment ripped off most of its oddments.

Only today, he stopped. Richard stopped abruptly, and the thoughts of war afflicted him. He knew he sheathed a gun on his belt. He knew he had lived most of his life caught up in precarious situations. Perhaps this festive period could offer him a chance to get his own slice of fun by confronting the burglars.

He took another slug of whiskey and trudged down to the apartment.

He unwound the knob.

The door creaked open.

He walked in. And watched the men dancing excitedly amidst eight different folds of stolen goods. There were four of them. Richard was surprised at the comfort that weaved around their countenance as they made themselves at home. It felt as if they knew nothing could come for them in this blistering cold. They held hands, dancing, conceivably drunk.

Richard took another slug.

“Gentlemen. I brought whiskey,” he bawled, keeping a smile on his face.

The men stopped abruptly and turned their gazes at him, befuddled.

“The crippled soldier,” one said, laughing. The others joined.

“I am going to make this quick,” another said, approaching him with a hammer.

“Break his other knee,” the first man said.

The man rushed towards Richard and threw him arm holding the hammer at him, Richard dodged, moving deftly to the right. He broke the bottle of whiskey on the back of the man’s head and gripped the arm that held the hammer. The man, almost dazed, had little confrontation in him. Richard turned the hammer from his hand, swept him from his feet and moments later, he hammered his two knees with a damning ferocity. The man let out a throaty cry of anguish. Another came at him more ferociously, lunging a dagger to his face. Richard lurched one way, limping, the hammer falling from his hand. The man came at him again. This time, he went for his stomach. Richard moved one way and gripped his hand. They slugged it off for a while. Richard turned the target of the knife towards his thigh and lunged it there. The man pealed out a shrill cry of pain, gripping his thigh.

Richard picked up the hammer.

“No!” the man shouted before Richard left another heavy hit on his knees. The other two men stood still. Torn between running away and confronting the man with a devilish look on his eyes. It was at this lean moment that Richard remembered he had a gun on his belt. He reached for it, smiling. As his hand grazed the butt of the gun, Richard started firing bullets towards their knees.

They fell joining their comrades. Moments later, Richard loosened the rope from one of the stolen items and tied the four men together.

He called the police before plopping down on a couch.

“Damn! What a lovely holiday,” he said, drinking from the whiskey the men had earlier feasted on.