Christmas Eve is my favorite day of the year. And Christmas Day. And the day before Christmas Eve when they pull me out of the attic. Okay, you've caught me, I have a lot of favorite days. Can you really blame me though? I spend 361 days tucked away in a cold, empty, dark attic.
Anyways, Christmas Eve is my favorite day of the year. I just love how Mr. comes running down the stairs each morning, belching out carols at the top of his lungs. I love how Mrs. bakes those wonderful smelling cookies. I love how the little one skips around excitedly, shaking the perfectly wrapped gifts that sit under my branches. I love how the carolers ring on the doorbell and inevitably are invited in for warm cocoa. I love how they light a fire and sit on the couch, reading tales of Christmas' past.
I remember the first year I met my family, eight years ago. I lived inside of a market, alone and friendless. Surrounded by my fellow peers, yet ostracized because of my small stature and puny décor. When I saw Mr. and Mrs. enter the store, I knew that they were special. I knew that they were going to be my friends, my family. "That one," Mrs. said. "I want that one."
"That one?" Mr. responded. "It's so small. How could it possibly hold my ornaments and your Mother's ornaments."
"But it's so cute. And, look at the price."
"The price doesn't matter. We don't need to worry about money, right?"
Mrs. glanced nervously down at her stomach. "There's no problem with saving money now. You know, just in case."
"Come on Em, let's just get the bigger one."
"But those cost too much money."
They stared at each other in silence. Mr. raised his eyebrows slightly. "Matt... We need to save money because... Because we're having a baby."
Mr. picks Mrs. up and spins her around. They then pick me up and take me to their home, and I've been a part of their family ever since.
I can already sense something different about this year, though. The sun has risen to the top of the sky before Mr. trudges down the stairs. He walks into the kitchen and attempts to make a cup of coffee. After about five minutes, he gives up, and stumbles into the living room. He grabs a bottle from the shelf and pours the dark brown liquid into his coffee mug. He sits down on the couch, sighing. "It's five o'clock somewhere," he mutters to himself.
Over the course of the next few hours, he refills his glass until all of the gross stuff disappears. He slowly becomes more and more incoherent, crying, cursing. "Why do people always leave? Am I not good enough? Am I? Where are you, God? What?"
Eventually, he falls asleep, his limbs sprawled across the couch. He slumbers until late afternoon, when he is woken by a knock on the door. I pray that the mysterious party is the carolers. Just one routine thing will make the whole day worth it. Perhaps it will even cheer up Mr.
It isn't the carolers. It's the priest from Mr. and Mrs.'s church. Mr. reluctantly welcomes him in, embarrassed by the glass bottles littering the floor. The priest tells Mr. how he never saw him anymore, and asking him to come to a Christmas service that night. Mr. politely refuses, but the priest is persistent. Eventually Mr. agrees. The priest also insists that he drives, considering Mr.'s current state. Mr. agrees again.
The sun sets. Christmas Eve is almost over. I don't understand. Where are the carolers? Mrs.? Their little one? This Christmas has been a strange and confusing one. By the time Mr. returns, the fire has reduced to embers, and a chill envelops the room. The aroma of alcohol follows Mr., clearly his time at church had turned into time somewhere else. He seems angry, I wish he wouldn't, it's Christmas Eve. Christmas Eve is amazing.
He stumbles into the living room, snot and tears drench his face and shirt. "How dare she. The audacity.. I... I shdahdh. I should... My church, they come to my church. Sh- she brings her to this town. They don't even want to see me... They don't...."
He picks up one of the glass bottles and slams it onto the table. It shatters, cutting Mr. My lights continue to twinkle, their glow refracting off of the shards, lighting up the room. The fire has completely died, and the darkness strangles the two of us in a lonely, cold feeling of despair.
Mr. starts yelling at the sky. "Where are you? Why- what did I DO? I don't deserve. WHY would you let them leave? WHY WOULD YOU LET HER LEAVE ME? I've been loyal! I HAVE TRIED SO HARD. YOU TOOK EVERYTHING FROM ME. WHERE IS YOUR MERCY? WHERE IS THAT ALL LOVING POWER THAT YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO HAVE?"
He spends the next ten or so minutes breaking everything in the room. I'm scared. I've never seen him like this. After almost everything is broken, he collapses on the ground in a heaving, drunken mess. I stop twinkling. I'm so confused. I guess Mrs. and the little one left, and I guess Mr. didn't want them to. I guess that's why he's so sad. After a depressingly long time spent cradling himself on the floor, Mr. looks up, at me. He stares at a while. If only I could communicate with him, if I could remind him of all of those happy years we had spent together. His gaze is too strong, and I redirect my focus to the window. Outside, snow is falling. It's beautiful, but I can feel the frigid desolation created by those beautiful flake from within the room. I think that Mr. is remembering. I think he's recalling all of those happy memories, the night they first bought me, the years he spent carefully wrapping presents and placing them under me, the nights in which my twinkling lights welcomed them home from church.
But it seems to be making him angry. He picks me up and drags me outside. Outside, where the harsh, ruthless snow chills my plastic branches. I'm thrown into the grass. Mr. goes inside, and returns moments later with a small cardboard box. Inside this box are little sticks. I've seen them before, they start the fire that lights up the house, our house. He sticks the stick against the box, and a little flame appears. In this flame I see hope, happiness, and warmth. He throws it on the ground, right next to me. The fire begins to spread. It spreads to me. At first, it's warm. It lifts my spirit. I dream of a better Christmas, one in which we are all together, we are all happy.
That dream dissipates as soon as it appears. As the fire spreads, it starts to hurt. Then it the pain becomes unbearable. It's something that I have never experienced before. I'm falling apart. I never knew how similar fire and snow were. They're so beautiful, so peaceful looking. But the pain is worse than anything, and before I know it, I've become the host of the biggest, brightest fire that I have ever seen. My body has become the fire and the fire has become me. Mr. stands over me, with a slight smile on his face. I have no idea why he would do that to me, why he would do that to his family. But I can't be angry at him because he seems to be happy now. The world starts to go dark and I waste away into nothing.
------------------------------------------------
The end. A little weird, I know, but I kind of like it. I'd advise against reading it if possible, it's too long. Anyways, enjoy your Sunday!
ALSO this is not a true story. Just a story. Well it may be true, but I've never heard of it before.
i'm so enjoying your posts
ReplyDelete