WARNING
This story contains a non-human alien hero, mature content, graphic language, and possible triggers.
But also, tons of Grinchy-Scroogey vibes and holiday cheer!
Standalone novel
ONE
“Are you still creeping your ex?”
My therapist was blunt if nothing else. I loved and hated her for it.
Busted.
I tore my eyes away from my palm-sized glass comm and slid it into my back pocket. Instead, I stood by the large window and fixed my gaze on the snow-covered road three stories below.
Christmas decorated buildings of every size lined the main strip of town leading up to the square where—even if I couldn’t see it right now—an enormous, perfectly trimmed balsam fir tree stood, surrounded by snowy hedges, dusted benches, and iron-curled street lamps.
I hated it.
Tinsel—the real name of this place—was a Dor Nye tourist trap modeled after charming Earth towns, and it was known for its winter solstice celebrations.
Namely, Christmas.
Which was a big thing since most of old Earth’s religious holidays were only observed by niche groups as a fun blast-from-the-past event.
Anyway. Maybe I’d been creeping on my ex, maybe I hadn’t been. Maybe I’d been looking at his newest holiday photo with his sparkly fiancée and their matching sweaters and their so-adorable-it’s-painful newborn.
Maybe I hadn’t.
“How many times per day have you checked his social threads this week? More than five times, or less?” Dr. Molina asked in her frustratingly calm voice.
It annoyed me. The decorations annoyed me. The bundled-up humans and aliens crowding the sidewalks on the cozy street below as they did their gift shopping annoyed me.
When did I become such a Scrooge?
I knew the answer to that as well as I knew my own freckles.
Today was December first. The worst day of the year, besides December twenty-fifth. It meant the official start of the winter solstice festivities.
Christmas.
Ugh.
“A little more,” I hedged, finally answering her question. How embarrassing. What had I become? It’d been three years since George, my ex-boyfriend, left me for another woman—the sparkly fiancée—and I just couldn’t get it out of my head.
Pathetic, really. I knew I had a problem—well, more like many problems—but I couldn’t stop it. It was like watching a train wreck—you just can’t look away—only I was the train. Fuck the rails, I was forging my own path right through a neighborhood, bulldozing whatever was in my way.
“And the other thing?”
The other thing.
My face flushed red, I could feel it. My skin betrayed me every time. It was probably redder than my hair right now. If stalking my ex’s social threads was embarrassing, then my newly formed compulsion to flush toilets made me want to climb into a foxhole and die.
Yeah, you heard that right.
Any time I’m near a commode, I can’t leave the room until it’s been flushed. It doesn’t matter that they’re sensor laden and flush on their own. Even if I’m just in there to straighten my hair or wash my hands...
I have to flush the fucking toilet.
I was doing good for a while a couple years ago. Six months after George left, I’d only checked his social threads about twice a day—in the morning and just before bed—but then he went and announced he was engaged. To her.
That’s when the toilet flushing began. Innocent at first. An extra flush here and there, but then it got worse. Sometimes I went into the restroom just to trigger the sensor and listen to the tank empty.
It’s a problem. A real fucking issue.
And here I am, talking to my therapist about it. It must really suck to be her. She probably laughs about all this at night. I wouldn’t blame her. I laugh at myself. And sometimes cry.
I’m a damn mess.
“The other thing is still a problem,” I declare with a sigh. The colorful Christmas lights twinkle against the buildings across the street as the darkness creeps up. It gets dark so much earlier than I’d like this time of year.
I can’t look at it any longer. Turning, I round the comfortable beige couch and plop down. It blends into the décor of this office. Everything is a shade of brown—boring and neutral. Probably that way on purpose.
Eventually, I rest my gaze on Dr. Molina. If I thought my eyes were a pretty green, hers blow mine outta the water. Vibrant and crystal clear. Hypnotizing and stark against her pale skin and black hair.
“Have you tried the method we talked about?”
“Yes. Counting doesn’t help.”
“It doesn’t help, or you don’t want it to help?”
Why the hell wouldn’t I want it to help? Who the hell wants to compulsively flush toilets?
I try not to grind my teeth. I don’t need another problem on top of the ones I already have. “It doesn’t help.”
“Let’s talk about something else. It’s December first. Have you decided if you’ll let your students participate in the elves’ visit next week?”
I think I’d rather talk about flushing toilets.
The annual Elves Day happens every year at the school where I teach. A horde of alien elves flood the school, bringing small stocking gifts for every student and faculty member.
It’s sweet, really. Or I used to think it was sweet. I used to love Christmas. This was my favorite holiday once upon a time, believe it or not.
“They’ll still get their gifts. I’m not holding my students back, I just don’t let the elves in my classroom.”
“Do you think that’s fair, Holly?”
“No.”
Yet I couldn’t bring myself to allow it the past few years. It was just a painful reminder.
“What if you tried it this year? All you have to say is yes.” Dr. Molina leaned forward in her chair, her voice gently coaxing. “You could think of this as another method. What if you said yes this week to things you’d normally say no to?”
“I don’t know...”
The thought made me itch.
“One week. Nothing that can harm you, of course. Just small things. Why don’t we start with the elves?”
We. She always said we like we were both flushing toilets and creeping our exes and hating everything Christmas related.
One week. Only one week of saying yes. Maybe I could do it.
Dr. Molina lifted a brow. “What do you think?”
I took a deep breath. “...Yes?”
TWO
I took off my knitted gloves once I got into my hovering transport pod and stomped my snowy boots on the floorboard. “Home,” I told the built in AI.
“Estimated arrival in twenty minutes.”
The transport navigated through town, the decked-out buildings and streetlamps twinkled with an array of lights, silver and gold bells, and shining ribbons among the profuse amount of pine swag.
I used to think this place was a picture-perfect digital post card. I suppose it still was, but it didn’t fill me with warmth like it used to.
Tinsel hadn’t changed—I had.
The buildings faded into the night, only wreathed streetlamps guiding the way as the transport ventured into the surrounding neighborhoods and their massive estates. So many old bloodlines lived in Tinsel, including mine.