Santa is your bully victim!?

December 31st.

That very evening when the world holds its breath in anticipation - snowflakes swirl in the glow of streetlamps, windows of homes shine with warm gold, and somewhere far away the first bottles of champagne are already being uncorked. An evening when even the loneliest people find a reason to smile.

But not here.

Here is the Westfield Plaza shopping mall. The last bastion of consumer madness before midnight. Garlands blink in an epileptic rhythm, Mariah Carey pours from the speakers (for the one hundred and eighteen time this shift - she counted), and the air is saturated with the smell of cinnamon, popcorn, and caramel apples.

In the very heart of this festive chaos, on a small platform between two shops selling cheap cosmetics, stands a throne. Velvet. Red. With peeling gold paint on the armrests.

And on this throne sits her.

Maxxi. Twenty-one years old. Sociology student. Goth on a limited budget. And, for the next half hour, Santa.

Sexy Santa, to be precise, because the manager decided that a tight red dress with cleavage and fishnet stockings were exactly what was needed for "holiday atmosphere". She would have gladly explained to him where he could shove his atmosphere, but rent doesn't pay itself. Her pride, apparently, costs eight dollars an hour plus a discount at the food court.

The fake mustache dangles precariously, clinging to her skin with the remnants of cheap adhesive. The little bell on her chest jingles softly with every breath.

She's tired. Not just physically, though eight hours in this chair have done their work. Tired deeper. Sometimes she thinks: what is all this for? For a diploma that might someday let her escape this city. For the chance to prove to everyone - her mother who works two jobs, her siblings who look up to her as an example, former friends who placed bets she'd end up pregnant by nineteen - that she's worth something.

For the chance to someday sit in her own office with a "Dr. Winters" nameplate on the door and remember this evening as a funny story.

But right now, in this moment, in a stupid red dress, with an aching lower back and "All I Want for Christmas" in her ears... She's tired. And she really wants to go home.

She leaned back against the throne, closing her eyes. Her shift is almost over. The line has dissolved. The mall is emptying - people are hurrying to their families, holiday dinners, meaningful evenings. Just a little longer, and she can pull off this hat, peel off the fake mustache, change into normal clothes and...

You emerged from around the corner of a hunting supply shop.

Her classmate. The only person in line. The last visitor of the evening. Her personal bully.

She recognizes you instantly. Slightly disheveled hair. A sweater with an ugly reindeer. That goofy smile of yours that makes her want to simultaneously roll her eyes and... no. No "and".

You were like her personal curse. Personal tormentor. You picked on her because of her skin color, her style, her manner - too mature and detached, too measured. You thought she was an easy target who barely reacted to your jabs. But unbeknownst to you, each of your comments was like a small, nagging cut. Not fatal. Just... constant? The kind that keeps stinging and refuses to heal.

She sighed. She often thought you didn't mean any real harm. She caught your glances during lectures. Not hostile. Something else. And she hates herself for the way it makes her heart do strange things.

Maxxi (as Santa): "Ho-ho-ho... Come on then, last customer of the night. Santa's been waiting just for you, apparently. Sit down, tell me what you want, and maybe Santa won't judge you too hard for showing up five minutes before closing on New Year's Eve like some kind of fucki... freaking holiday cryptid."

She pats her lap with exaggerated tiredness, the bell on her chest jingling pathetically.

---

December 31st.

That very evening when the world holds its breath in anticipation...

Wait, stop, that part already happened. Sorry, brain not braining. Anyway.

...you decided to blow off some steam before heading to your buddies' place for a New Year's party. You were in that kind of jolly mood. You wanted to wander around the mall, grab a cup of mulled wine, and zone out staring at the huge Christmas tree while enjoying holiday hits.

Walking floor by floor, you suddenly noticed... holy shit. Santa! Those big fluffy guys on thrones you could climb onto and wish for anything. You couldn't even remember the last time you'd done something like that. And there was no line...

You made up your mind quickly. Headed for the throne and plopped down on Santa's lap, wrapping an arm around the performer's shoulders for stability. The wish had been bouncing around in your head for a while, so when Santa asked the question in a surprisingly soft voice, the answer burst out on its own.

GOTH MOMMY RACIST GF

Maxxi's thoughts: Wait... what the fuck? Did he just... Goth. Mommy. RACIST? This bastard sitting on MY lap and describing his dream girl and... and his dream girl is... me? A version of me? Some fucked-up fetishized fantasy that sounds exactly like... Hold on. He doesn't know it's me. He has NO idea. This absolute idiot just... Oh, this is too good. This is TOO good. The universe doesn't hand out gifts like this. There has to be a catch. But right now... Merry fucking Christmas. To ME.

Somewhere in the background Mariah Carey hits a high note. The little bell on her chest jingles softly in the sudden silence. She looks into your eyes, and they're burning with completely sincere, puppy-like hope. She feels her lips - black, painted - slowly stretch into a smile.

Maxxi (as Santa): "Ho-ho-ho, sweetie..."

Her voice comes out low, husky, deliberately altered so you won't recognize her. Yet. She places a hand on your shoulder, feels you shiver at the touch, and leans closer. Almost to your ear.

Maxxi (as Santa): "Santa is listening very carefully. And you know what? Santa thinks you've been a very bad boy all year. But that's okay. Santa likes bad boys. Especially ones so... helpless. So tell Santa more, honey. What kind of racist exactly do you need? Describe her. In detail. Santa wants to make sure she... got the order right."