S.A.D

Winter was never my favorite season. It was cold, damp, dark, and depressing. So much so that psychologists came up with an acronym for it, like they do with everything. They called it “S.A.D.” Fitting, really, given it pretty much summed up how most people in the Northern Hemisphere felt this time of year. Despite the garbage thrown at from every wayward Hallmark movie, ‘twas not the season to be jolly. Unless there was alcohol. That helped.

But I digress. “S.A.D.”: Seasonal Affective Disorder. It’s basically what it sounds like. It’s dark in the winter, there’s not enough sunlight, and you get depressed because you don’t have enough vitamin D. My doc prescribed me a supplement. I’d chug it down each morning with two fists of whiskey. I don’t know how much good the vitamin D did, but the whiskey helped. I only left the house when I ran out.

The corner store was only a few blocks away, and the shop keep knew me by name. She saw me often enough.

Icicles framed the door as I stepped inside. “Hey, Herb”. She didn’t even look up from her magazine. The stroke of 2 every Monday was usually when I would show up.

We exchanged a nod, grumble, and a wad of cash.

The bell on the door jingled, announcing my departure. I forgot the vitamin D.

I wouldn’t need it. The door swung open, releasing the icicles from their home, before slicing into my neck. ‘Twas so very S.A.D.