The Boy Who Ate Baubles

Every year, without fail, Bobby ate baubles. His parents refused to keep them in the house, but at Christmastime, their son would find a way to satiate his incongruous hunger.
    “I’m going to Jerry’s,” he called from the front door.
    Dan, Bobby’s father, leapt up from the sofa. “If I find out you’ve been eating baubles,” he said, “you’re grounded for a fortnight.” But he knew that such threats were pointless; Bobby was an addict, as dependent on glittery decorations as an alcoholic was on cheap booze.
    When Bobby returned that night, with sparkling lips and a sorrowful expression, neither parent reproached
him. In time, they hoped he would seek help, but for now their support was superfluous.
    “We should be thankful,” Dan told his wife,“that Christmas comes but once a year.” And yet Abigail – Mom – was far from grateful, for it was she that cleaned the blood from the toilet bowl, watching the fleshy shards intently as they flushed away.
    And the oddest thing about it was: Bobby didn’t bother with Easter, said the chocolate eggs tasted
funny.

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