It was merely a month, maybe two, or two and a half, after it happened. Or more.

He was not really sure. Time had temporarily become virtually non-existent for him, and who could blame him? The ticking of the clock rang through his cabin, but he knew it did not mean anything on the great scheme of things, so why would he care.

As he retired, as he is granted a well-deserved respite from his navigation duties, he moved into a small cottage on Cornwall, alone and in complete and absolute isolation. He did not even know it was Christmas when he woke up that morning. Not even the lone present shipped over from the Caribbean alerted him to the Holidays.

The first sign he caught of Christmas was when he saw the snow falling mercilessly on the windy coattails of storm clouds, the church carollers coming over from the nearby town, the mistletoe hung on the shops' doors, the smell of mince pies whiffled on the narrow streets… It all wafted to him. He shook his head dazedly. Could it possibly be?

Could it be Christmas? Oh, where did the time go?

He hates it now. In all honesty, he never remembered a time in which he actually liked it, as the cheery, companionable atmosphere of Yule always depressed his lonely demeanour more than he would care to admit, but this year would be near unbearable. Tolerance, banquets, gifts, peace, Lord, he would spiral into his mind disease only further.

Perhaps he should have remained out on the sea, decreed that the holiday be scorned of the calendars, that it be completely forgotten by any self-preserving sailor under his watch.

He might have been feeling less miserable. He might have been able to prescind of those opium pills.

Alas, he might not be on the ship sailing the rich and sugary waters of the Caribbean, he might be on steady ground, but the salty and cool breeze still whiffs through his nose, he still profits from the calming influence of the eternal blue expanse.

He might even feel calm whenever he is alone at his tiny cottage, with his treasure. Funny how the lonely building filled with memories could enfold him in… Was it warmth? If he was a contemporary of hers, he might have compared it to the feeling of being snuggles with an electric blanket on a Winter day.

He guessed his mother's warm love had not left the old and dreary place his soul is damned to inhabit known as his flesh, that he still held some hope for the future onwards. It floated over the mountains to enfold him, embrace him and hold him tight. Keeping him safe, keeping him somewhat alive.

How he wished he was gifted opium pills for Christmas for his charred nerves, but it was also a feeling that a home near the sea could not heal, and therefore, he concludes, it was hopeless. There was no hope for the poppy drugs from faraway India.

Who would possibly want pills for Christmas, anyways? Of course, it also depended on whose home they would invade and their hosts. His memories of his short time with her was his beloved host on his time on the face of world.

Did he still want those pills? Actually, he had so much to be thankful for, and yet all he wanted was to burn the world down. Perhaps those pills would be useful to calm his charred nerves as he watches the arson.

They, whoever these so-called unintelligent 'they' may be, say that your home is where your heart is. What, then, was then attempting to jump out of his chest? A genetic machine, engineered to escape whenever it felt threatened.

Plasma that spits, a moving mass, a stupid organ that tied his existence to this hateful place, that too much hurt has been done to for any hope of recovery or rehabilitation.

Time, time. As the days passed, he got inched closer and closer to her, and that had to be enough for him. His own, personal opium pill.