Christmas Bag

Blake wakes up, already buzzing with that Christmas itch. She rolls over and starts shaking Rosie’s shoulder, pleading for one present now. Rosie groans, rolls away, but Blake keeps pushing until Rosie finally sits up, rubbing her eyes. Rosie leaves the room. When she comes back, her hands are behind her back. Instead of a shiny box under the tree, she drops a blue bag over Blake’s head. The world goes dark. One shove sends Blake flat on the mattress. Rosie yanks Blake’s ankles and pins them, nails raking over her bare soles. Blake kicks, laughs, gasps, but the bag muffles every sound. Rosie’s fingers slide higher, digging into her ribs through the thin fabric of her pajamas. Blake twists, arches, helpless, the bag rustling with every thrash. Rosie doesn’t stop. She works her thumbs under Blake’s toes, finds the tender spots, presses in until Blake is shaking and the bag clings damp to her open mouth. The bed creaks. The room smells like pine and sweat. Christmas morning is off to a filthy start.