Brief
The front door swung open on its hinges, garland and twinkling lights framing a scene straight from a department-store Christmas dream, only the actors felt anything but festive. Mr. Hewitt sat in his ornate red chair, panting each time he bellowed “Ho, ho, ho!” His rotund belly strained the seams of the padded suit, and his greasy white beard twitched as he pinched at cookie crumbs. Guests clustered around him, squealing for photos. Mrs. Hewitt hovered beside a laden table, her skimpy scarlet velvet outfit taut all over her body, arms folded to keep her tits from bouncing.
She swears under he breath and curses every moment Mr. Hewitt still lives. Every forced jingle of the cursed bell around her neck feels like another link in the chain he’s wrapped around her. Every breath of this scandalous scarlet outfit is another reminder of his thoughtless cruelty. She can’t stand the sight of his bloated Santa belly wobbling with each “Ho, ho, ho,” as he shovels cookies into that greasy white beard of his, all the while grinning like this joke isn’t filling her with cold rage. She despised the way he so blithely signed her into this humiliation, celebrating her misery as if it’s holiday cheer. Miriam loathed him—and how she ached to rip off the stupid costume "Fucking pig."
