December 25, 1620 - Madrid

     Christmas means something different to everyone. It is suppose to be a time of celebration. A time for families to come together, enjoying the company. A time for food and charity for others. But growing up, Christmas was not a happy day. It was a day of remembering that my mother was not with us. A day when my father would drink himself into a slumber while I felt even more alone with my hunger.

     I suppose that is why I make such a fuss over it now, making up for my childhood. I have spent days planning and preparing a meal for our enthralled humans, our sheep as we call them. They will eat until their stomachs grow tight and full. It is the least I can do since most of them won’t live much longer. After all, they’re not the only ones feasting today.