“I’m sorry, Bob.”
Bob stayed silent. He stared at his feet, clutching the little cane close to his chest before joining a group of black coats huddled around a makeshift fire.
Scrooge just couldn’t understand. He had given to the church, to the beggars, he had given to the school, to the hospital, to all of his friends and family; he’d been a good man-- a very good man, yet they were still poor, and the very child who inspired his giving now lay cold in a wooden box before him.
In a fit of rage Scrooge threw his fists to the heavens and cried out: “Is this how you punish me?! I give, and give, and give, and I’m left with this?! What say you Marley, spirits of all things merry and just? The child, Tim, he--”
Scrooge choked on his words, and sank to his knees in the snow like a fallen stag. Deer were scarce at this end of town, except for the hungry, the weak, the deranged who wandered in solitude, waiting for the bloodlust of wolves or nature’s swords to overtake them while the rest of the herd pushed on. As for the old man-- weak as he was-- he managed to pry himself from the earth’s grasp. The darkness at the pit of Scrooge’s chest awoke from its slumber, and the hungry beast crawled back into his heart.
“Nothing has changed.”
Comments