For Here, That's Just How It Is

December 24th – 9:07 p.m.

The wind cuts the skin like a damp blade.

Streetlights blink, their dying light casting tired shadows across cracked sidewalks. Footsteps drag through the cold silence of a city celebrating Christmas on credit. The store windows glow like polished lies, mannequins smiling blankly behind glass.

Joad walks, hood pulled low, hands buried in the holes of his coat pockets. He’s going nowhere — or rather, anywhere but somewhere. Rejection walks beside him, a faithful shadow. It’s been there since school, watched him sleep from the ceiling, laughed from the bathroom mirror.

He’s 27. Homeless.

A sister he hasn’t seen in five years.

A father who once told him:

"Look left and right before crossing."

But the danger was already behind him — wearing his own face.

Tonight, like yesterday, Joad walks alone.

But tonight is Christmas Eve.

And people avoid his eyes like they avoid torn garbage bags in alleyways.

---

December 24th – 10:16 p.m.

Lina, 19, sobs in the bathroom of a bar where the music drowns out hearts.

Her body is here, made up, dressed, exposed. But her mind is somewhere else — locked in memories bruised by hands she never invited.

They told her:

"You’re pretty, why don’t you smile more?"

But no one sees the horns she glimpses at night when her eyes close. Black figures breathing fire, standing in her teenage bedroom.

Lina is a survivor.

But in this world, surviving is already too much.

---

December 24th – 11:43 p.m.

Milo, 43, sits on a bench with a blanket over his knees.

He talks to himself.

Or maybe he’s praying.

Or maybe he’s listening to the mountains.

He used to be a teacher. Then the school closed. Then his wife died. Then his house disappeared. Then his name.

Now, people call him “that man who talks to the air.”

He says the sea told the forest a secret.

That our ancestors are buried in dying trees.

That peace only lasts as long as it takes to reload a weapon.

And that here, everyone dies with their eyes wide open.

---

December 25th – 12:00 a.m.

The city shakes with fireworks and broken bottles — “Happy New Year, early!”

Bells ring, but they echo like a lie:

A scream from somewhere. A siren too late.

A stranger on a stretcher. Someone filming.

Children sleeping under bridges with secondhand teddy bears.

Parents screaming through walls so thin you hear them from the street.

Joad still walks.

He passes a church. Inside: warmth, music, candlelight.

But he knows it’s not for him.

He tried, once.

They said his smell scared the children.

That he didn’t belong in a sacred place.

He remembered his father’s words:

"Say nothing. For here, that’s just how it is."

So he keeps walking.

Frozen sidewalk.

Starless sky.

---

December 25th – 3:03 a.m.

A trash fire glows in a corner.

A small group laughs, coughs, drinks.

Among them: Zac, 17, black eye, trembling hands.

He stole tonight. Not a gift —

A credit card.

He said it was to feed his little brothers.

But he spent it on cigarettes and scratch tickets.

He lost.

He lost everything.

But he laughs anyway.

Because laughter is the last mask left.

---

December 25th – 6:14 a.m.

The sky fades to gray.

The city wakes with a hangover.

Sidewalks littered with dead glitter and plastic.

The poor rise early. The rich sleep late.

Joad sits on the edge of a bridge, feet dangling above the void.

A snowflake lands on his cheek. He brushes it off. Smiles, faintly.

"I sketched my dreams, Dad. But no one wanted them."

He closes his eyes.

And jumps.

---

Epilogue

A name in the paper. A blurry photo.

A stranger on a stretcher.

A passerby says:

**"Sad. Especially on Christmas."