Training Camp

Gloved hands clutch the wheel, red as rage, bruised by dreams, a punch-drunk holiday festering in the dark. Neon buzzes “TRAINING CAMP” above, letters jagged like a broken promise.

Two figures locked in silence, eyes heavy with something unsaid, one staring through frostbitten glass, the other at shadows beyond the road – memories hit like fists, relentless and cold.

Grit and tinsel collide on the dashboard, a garland drowning in filth and despair, plastic cheer in a junkyard car, where no one wins but everyone fights.

Christmas burns under fluorescent light – no angels, no saviors, just bloodied knuckles and hollow stares, waiting for the bell to toll again.