A hundred moons after, Frida lost patience.
The goldfish rotted in the bird cage and clumps of her own dark hair were captured into a makeshift curtain. She plucked tiny yellow feathers from her little dead bird in the glass jar and fed it to the microwave.
Finally, Christmas morning hesitantly stepped in.
She flew down the stairs. “Mommy, where are my gifts?! Where’s Santa?”
She peeped up the chimney and a hand grabbed her throat and pulled her up the walls.
Krampus shoved her into his prickly jute sack, flung it over his shoulder and tottered away, mumbling, “Merry Christmas, indeed,” under his breath.