DECEMBER 25TH --- in the velvety haze of his eyes flickering open , he can almost forget the calendar holiday . visions he’s forged of this year’s season are non existent --- the annual andrews cut christmas tree in the corner of his living room ; the crinkled corners of his father’s smile as they hang lights and bake cookies . a haze that barely lasts , diminishing as dull hues are met with even duller walls , the dampened reality of his new home setting in .
ARCHIE ANDREWS COULD LAUGH . he could laugh , and laugh , until perhaps he’d find that , somewhere , this was all a tragic joke . that he’d blink again , awakening to find postered walls , an open window to betty cooper’s honeyed locks and ocean eyes ; his father’s voice calling to him , and vegas’ paws clattering on hardwood floors ... it’s like a distant melody , and no matter how many times people visit , it never equates to moments he never knew he had to cherish .
ARCHIE ANDREWS COULD CRY --- he could let his woes weigh him and chain him to his mattress . but he won’t do this . he CAN’T . he’ll show up to visiting hours , he’ll participate in a session that’s become mundane --- because if he doesn’t have this , he doesn’t have anything .
ARCHIE ANDREWS’ FAMED SMILE , but it’s somber . his eyes give way to the truth he refuses to assert . still --- ❛❛ hey . merry christmas . ❜❜
