In The Bleak Midwinter
He peers directly toward me, eyes watering in the icy wind. He can’t see me of course; no one can.
Shaking his head, he turns for home, tightly clutching the charity bag; protecting its precious contents.
He had the feeling. They all get it. Nothing I can do, just complete the job. I quicken my pace, closing with him, footsteps crunching on the newly gritted paving.
I reach out and touch his shoulder lightly, tenderly. He shudders and drops like a shot pheasant.
The bag bursts, toys decorating the street.
He drifts towards the blinding bright light.
I hate Christmas.
This story was written for the Friday Fictioneer challenge from Rochelle Wisoff-Fields