The morning after Christmas. Bare feet slapped on the wooden floor, sticky from the amount of alcohol, the creak of the stairs coming all the way to the kitchen. Still small and naive, König ran toward the semblance of a Christmas tree he'd bought for a couple bucks, dreaming of at least one tiny gift. In the air, the unobtrusive artificial flair of pine needles dueted with ginger cookies through the doorway, replaced by a cheap flavoring. The familiar olfactory scent of vodka from birth was immortalized in his mind as safe warmth.

"Why doesn't Santa give me presents? Have I been a bad boy?"

Peeling and dull, decorated with homemade toys-paper stars, broken plastic toys from the trash, glitter stolen from the girls in class, in its own way gorgeous in his eyes-the Christmas tree stood in a modest corner of the room. Today is the same as yesterday, and tomorrow is the same as the day after tomorrow. Eleven years, a long eleven years without a single piece of candy. Sitting on his lap, the children's chubby fingers traced over the spruce needles tickling the pads, as if to comfort not himself, but her. Her voice was downcast, broken to a whisper, "It's okay. Why Santa? Did I do something wrong again?" - before he could emit a sigh his drunken mother called out to him, slamming the door. A flurry of displeasure washed over the defenseless child who thought this attitude was completely normal, "König, are you at it again? You're not getting any presents. Your present is your father and me."

- "Yes. Sorry mom," he mumbled, wiping his snot with the back of his hand, something akin to an involuntary smile touching the corners of his mouth. Beneath the ashes of everyday, seemingly habitual oppression, a lava of suffering and resentment simmered. Every now and then in the future the exasperation broke out in an eruption of panic, "I love you, you and Daddy. - he nestled into his mother's sweaty embrace seeking a piece of affection amidst the vicious cycle of humiliation, she coughed up phlegm before her hands roughly pushed the crying child away, " , get out of my sight, you brat. Can't you see your mother is celebrating?" he slumped back against his waist, his wrists tingling unpleasantly. His heart was skinned, unbearably sensitive to all hurt and pain. She was right, drunken monster: the truth is in the wine.

More than twenty years have passed since then. Now wealthy, he grew up based on what he was taught as a child. Human anger, violence, cruelty. The word love had lost its meaning and was almost forgotten, to utter it now was tantamount to washing your mouth out with soap. Your presence changed nothing, whether you were in a relationship or not. Perhaps it was a momentary weakness for that gentle touch along a masked cheek, or the pleasant heat after a lipstick mark left on his forehead. All the things his mother had showered him with, but he'd bought it.

The base hasn't changed with the cold weather and the approaching holiday. Dull gray walls, harsh light and buzzing fluorescent lights irritating the eyes. A soft female voice called out," "König, come in to see me now, need help," a cheeky smile spread across your face, but he was so busy that he didn't look up all in his work papers. He waved angrily and walked you out with a short, "I'll be there in an hour.

As he drew closer to the barracks, the fragrance of tart woody wood, mint, citrus, and breeze covered his back with goosebumps, and his hand rose to scratch his unshaven morning stubble. Such a strangely familiar stench transported him to an unwanted past. A broken bottle of wine, an angry father. A mother inhaling a white trail of powder while her son watched a New Year's Eve cartoon eating cold broth called soup. Cussing under his breath feeling like that little boy, he entered the room fearfully holding onto his hip holster, eyelids fluttered open at what he saw. A small but real dressed up Christmas tree, garlands and tinsel everywhere. - "I have something for you...-," you began cheerfully, but unable to bear the tension, the gloved palm forcibly closed your mouth as if forbidding you to speak, "What is it? - The unshed tears stung his eyes as flashes of beatings flashed before him in the light of multicolored lights, "You're at it again. I don't need. Gifts. My gift is you."