I look around the battlefield in despair.
@Jordan and his diabolical light bomb have ravaged our position, an unexpected strike that has greatly weakened our defence.
All about me I see the shattered and broken bodies of my comrades. Those that couldn't see it coming. Men I've laughed and joked with as we tried to outlive this hellhole of a situation.
I don't know how many are left. Every day I find another body, face down in the tinsel, flesh shredded by jagged sections of bauble.
Fear is my only friend left. My paranoia reaches new extremes. I tell myself, even if I receive a notification about my account, or some system message, it could easily be a Trojan horse. It could easily be four pounds of plastic Carey ready to blow a hole in my chest cavity.
No. I have to go on. I have to do it for them. For those that lie around me now, dead, struck down in their prime, lying in the soft heliotropic glow of those evil Christmas lights.
Sometimes late at night I can't take it. I think about crawling out of this hole and screaming "Come and get me! Make it my last night!" Until a hot slug of Mariah Carey pierces my heart from the dark of the cold winter's night.
But after so many give their lives... Don't they deserve better? Don't they deserve that one of us lives to tell the story of the horrors we saw here? Would anyone even believe me...
I have to go on. I don't care about the presents underneath the Christmas tree...
Someone has to live to tell the world what happened here.