The Snow Globe

Date: 1/5/2026

Christmas has come back to haunt me. I’ve only just survived it — the forced cheer, the ritualised joy, the edible regret — and here it is again, tapping me on the shoulder like it expects a thank-you note. Christmas: strike two. I’m with Kylie. Kylie, who seems to be my best friend again, which is suspicious in itself. You’d think I’d have learned by now. She loves Christmas. Loves it. She’s one of those maniacs who actually enjoys wrapping presents — enjoys every painstaking second of it. If wrapping were an Olympic sport, she’d be on the podium, clutching gold, weeping, while the crowd admired her edges. Perfect corners. Ribbon measured to the millimetre. Symmetry so precise it feels vaguely psychopathic. It’s beautiful. It’s pointless. Like icing a cake no one’s allowed to eat. She’s carrying a bag stuffed with presents and I feel the familiar pang of panic. For one horrifying moment, I think they’re for me. I haven’t bought her anything. Not a gift. Not a card. Not even guilt in festive font. But salvation exists. The presents aren’t for me. They’re for her stepfather, who now lives in a care home despite being barely over sixty. “Yeah, he’s not the man he was,” Kylie says, casually devastated. “We lost him some years ago.” I nod — not out of politeness, but because I truly understand. The care home smells like stale Christmas dinners with a side of impending death. We walk past tinsel drooping from noticeboards like it’s tired of trying. A Christmas tree shedding its last pine needles of dignity, its fairy lights flickering like a weak pulse. A lone, broken bauble rolls across the floor, desperate to flee the scene of this Yuletide homicide. We find him in the communal area, sitting among residents who are old enough to warrant the compression socks, the nappies, and the slow erasure of their names. He isn’t old enough. He sticks out. Like a typo in a death notice. Something you keep rereading, convinced it shouldn’t be there. “Dad,” Kylie says, touching his shoulder. Nothing. “Dad,” she tries again. “Amanda’s here to see you.” Something flickers. A spark. Microscopic. So small I might have imagined it — but I don’t think so. She opens one of the presents. The paper tears beautifully — tragic as it is — and inside is a snow globe. One like the ones she collected as a child. Ones that proudly lined her windowframe. Ones we used to shake together, laughing, racing the snow, seeing where it settled first. A stupid game. A perfect one. She shakes it. We watch the snow fall. And when the last flake lands, the scene dissolves with it. I’m at the local swimming pool — or somewhere wearing the same wetsuit. I think it’s the changing rooms. Or the watery vestibule of a tiny, personal hell. My bare feet slap against the soaked floor. Splosh. Splosh. Splosh. I’m looking for my husband. He was here a second ago. He does this. Wanders. Like he’s lost his train of thought and he’s off hunting for it. “Mandy,” he calls. I follow his voice past lockers, cubicles, strangers in various states of exposure, until steam rolls out of the shower room like a living thing. “In here.” He’s behind the glass, naked, unbothered, fog politely doing him a favour. “A quickie?” he asks. “What? Here? At the public swimming baths?” I say, scandalised, ageing before my own eyes. Call me a prude, but it’s been a while since we’ve had sex anywhere that isn’t a bed specifically designed for it. We used to be adventurous. Feral. Rampant. Woods. Cars. Cinemas. Even this pool once — no judgement, please. But now? Here? Like savage beasts with no concept of decorum or decency. Before I can protest, stamp my damp foot down and tell him where to shove it, he pulls me in. Steam swallows us. Glass squeaks. We try to be quiet. We fail. Majestically. The glass fogs completely. The scene disappears. I’m now at some sprawling mansion in Beverly Hills, or something equally superficial and soulless. There’s been an intrusion. We’re all outside in a garden, pretending to be calm and trying not to die. By we, I mean a family who are apparently famous — though honestly, they look more like Bored Housewives of Nobody-Actually-Cares, who have somehow stumbled into a hostage situation. Mum. Dad. Teenage daughter sobbing theatrically on a sun lounger, announcing she doesn’t want to die. Do any of us? Despite my looming demise, I notice they all look like the same person wearing different wigs — a cosmic joke I can’t unsee. This tickles me for a second, until the daughter starts wailing again. Her dad tries to soothe her, which only makes it worse. She needs to stop. She’s too loud. Noise feels costly right now. Our lives are at stake here. I’m standing off to the side, wondering why I’m here at all. I don’t belong to this family. I’m not related. At least, I don’t think so. I’m just what I always am — a witness. An outsider. Peripheral. Watching life like it’s something happening behind glass. My phone buzzes. Unknown number. RUN. Like an idiot — like every woman in every horror film — I run inside. Straight into the intruders. Black clothes. Guns. Arms tightening around me. “Got you.” Somehow, through will and a silent prayer, I wriggle free. I sprint past an American police officer with cropped hair and hard angles, the kind of protective force that could snap a threat in half and shield me with the same hand. She points upwards. “Attic,” she says. “Climb. Now.” A rope ladder dangles from the ceiling. My hands shake as I climb, each rung a fresh gamble. “Keep going,” she shouts. “You’ll be safe up there.” I know she’s lying before her sentence even lands. I hear a scream. I’m back in the care home. The snow globe is still in Kylie’s hands. The snow has settled now. Thick. Final. Deceptive. Inside, something is wrong. At first it’s only the curve of the glass, the way it bends the light — then I see myself. Small. Contained. Pressed to the inside, staring out as if I’ve been waiting there for years. I don’t remember entering. The version of me in the globe looks older. Or perhaps simply tired of waiting. I blink. The globe is empty. Just snow. A quiet little world, made to be shaken, then set down and observed. Kylie says my name. It drifts past me. Meant for someone else. I look at my hands. They’re shaking. Or maybe it’s the globe. And in the stillness, I can’t remember which side of the glass I was ever on.