Santa hadn't slept well. A combination of grief, sorrow, and regret had kept him awake for hours. When slumber had found him at last, the night had been without both dreams or recovery.
Now he was awake, and his exhausted gaze wandered over the dull, plain white surface of his ceiling. Stifling a groan, he turned around once more, but when his eyes wandered over one of the many shelves full of bottles that occupied the walls of the place, his mind was suddenly assaulted with an image of times long gone.
There used to be a pile of presents there. It would raise his mood every time he looked at it, even though he mostly associated it with work.
Santa shook his head, and looked away at the opposite end of the room.
But it didn't help. Nothing used to be here, just a nice, clean wall. He didn't use to spend that much time in his home, anyway, did he? Most of the time, he was outside.
No. Santa shook his head. This was not him. He was not one to dwell on the past. He tried closing his eyes, but the absence of light only highlighted other things.
The smell was different. It had not smelled this clean at this place for years. And it reminded him of happier times...
This... is you Asthma, isn't it?" Santa groaned, wheezed, and sputtered. "You're doing this. You just can't... can't leave me alone, can you? Curse you...
Rolling around, he fell out of his bed, and he hurt his head when he hit the floor. Lacking any orientation, he crawled towards where he thought the exit to be, and for a brief moment, he was convinced to see the frame of a tomcat standing there...
Then everything around him disappeared.