Very Pretty
When you're a kid, four, five, six, and seven years old, it's lively.
The constant bang of loud voices down the table laden with sumptuous, specially prepared food.
The rest of the year, Eric could recount for hours and hours, is quite boring to be honest.
The same old, same old yelling and screaming of two adults, his own door constantly closed, the sound of the front door and the family car gliding out of the driveway at several miles faster than was appropriate.
The holidays are the time where the family is at it's best, it's most lively where we come together for what we love the most. "You Eric!" announced the plump, sweet granny that smelled of cinnamon streusel every Christmas night.
"You're what we love the most."
Being incessantly kissed and pinched from the time he could mewl and complain so, so adorably, said all the adults. "You're what make the holidays such a pleasure."
What amazing lies those are.
And poor Milo.
Eric had preemptively shut up his borrowed bedroom in his best friend's house. As the scattered, uneasy rise of adults' yelling rose in the air.
His stomach clenching, despite the hunger, a layer of bile began to bubble.
Maybe he'd peek in later to see if Milo would catch on this year. For once he could be there for when the sparkly wrapping turned out to be a dumpy little cardboard box.
Speaking of, just what lumped, misshapen thing did Milo get him to be such an odd shape when wrapped?