The Kill Clause

by Lisa Unger

I like to think that Santa and I have a lot in common. First, there’s the breaking and entering. At this, we both have special skills, honed over time.

The other thing Santa and I have in common is a list. I know if you’ve been naughty or nice. In my case, if you’ve been very naughty and managed to anger the wrong people, I may be coming to see you in the night. I know when you are sleeping. I know when you’re awake.

Don’t get me wrong. I like nice things, too, but some people have too much.

That was the first thing I noticed about him—that flat, dead, entitled expression some men have. Like the world owes them. Like they can

speak but don’t have to listen. Like they can take but only give when it serves them. Like other people exist to fulfill their needs and for no other reason.

Depressed implies that at some point you were happy, that there’s an alternate state of being to which you aspire.

It’s just two emojis, a knife and a Santa.

But maybe that’s how you feel when you’re a rescue. Anything that’s not harm looks like love.

In abuse situations, eventually you will run up against a hard place. You can’t continue under conditions that harm you. So you have to find a way out, no matter the consequences.

That’s the condition of childhood. We’re at the mercy of our parents’ choices.