I look into the window of my house dully, watching the tiny flecks of dust twirl around the air and finally settle on the ground. Outside the comforts of my house, I'm all rugged up with my favourite sweats on and an afghan thrown carelessly over my shoulders.
Next to my favourite chair is a raging fire, kept calm by the formidable fireplace, and my puppy, Patch, lying at the wreath of the stone structure, staring up at the stockings hanging from it, as dully as I am watching the inside of the house I don’t feel I belong to anymore.
But deep down I know even he is exited for the next day. Everyone is. It’s a bit hard not to be really. What kind of a freak doesn’t like Christmas after all?
Rolling my eyes at the excitement deep in his eyes, I snort in disgust and shiver slightly. Christmas, what a joke! The whole thing is just one entire scam that the whole population seems to have fallen for.
Well not me, that’s for sure.
Curling my lip, I peer at the half of the tree I can see from where I'm perched outside and want to scream. All of the dainty ornaments hanging off the delicate branches shimmer in the light from the fire. Underneath them, shiny wrapping paper glimmers just as brightly.
Shaking my head I turn away from the window sullenly. What I see just infuriate me more.
Through the snow and across the street, everyone has put up those annoying flashing lights that mesmerise everyone else, but really grill my nerves. A broken blinking Santa with a fat stomach and cheerful expression stares into the souls of every person walking by.
Not that anyone would be stupid enough to go out tonight, except for me of course.
Thinking of the presents under the tree, I realise how horrified my family will be to wake on the happiest day of the year to find my frozen body just outside their house.
Laughing callously, my brain flashes to the one memory burned into my head, playing on the walls that are my skull. All conscious though leeches from my brain as it plays slowly.
Screaming in pain I fall to the floor, begging for mercy.
‘Please! Please, just stop! PLEASE!’ Screaming again I cringe away from the metal rod in his hand that he had pulled from the centre of my precious Christmas tree.
Sobbing into the ground I feel a searing pain across my back and whimper, sobbing harder.
Feeling the pain again I cry harder and scream again. As the rod hits for a third time, I feel my skin tear and blood beginning to pool on my back.
‘Please! What did I do? Stop it please! It hurts!’
‘Shut up girl!’ He yells and begins to bring the rod down faster, harder.
I scream at each hit but he doesn’t stop, not until I'm a mangled mess on the floor and his breathing is laboured. Finally he drops the equally mangled metal rod on the floor and walks away.
Turning my small face towards his retreating boots, I see my mother standing there horrified, tears streaming down her face but doing nothing to help me.
In the distance I hear him calling to her and without a word she bows her head and walks towards him, keeping her eyes glued to the floor and leaving me in a puddle of my own blood.
Cringing, I shake my head in the hopes that this once, they will go away. Not surprisingly, they don’t but I have to hope.
With tears streaming from my eyes, much the same as they had been in my memory, I throw off the afghan hanging raggedly around my shoulders and gently place it on the ground. After that my sweats follow and then my shirt, leaving me in just a see through white tank-top and a pair of pink panties.
Slowly, I lower myself to the snow covered ground and lay myself out, feeling a sense of peace cloud my muddled brain.
The last thing I see before closing my eyes and falling into a wonderfully dreamless sleep is the red of the broken, flashing, Santa’s suit, and the cheerful look on his face as he steels my soul.