I can hear them. I listen. When I close my eyes, I see them.
It was frightening at first. I was only a child.
What started with whispers and what seemed like shadows hiding in the corners of my eyes became all that is the amusement park of my mind.
Unavoidable. Best to embrace change. Keep living. Why die inside, when it feels so alive.
It Was Christmas
... and I was five.
I waited up all night for a fat man to fall down a fucking chimney.
I tried not to eat the cookies. Failed. Even the one I stashed under the middle couch cushion was gone. The milk? It would have went sour anyway. All of this stress along with the waiting could only help contribute to this feeling of what mom would call, a tummy ache.
I just called it gas and that wasn't the only thing I found out about some of the things my parents told me at that age.
Santa
... he doesn't work alone.
The Helper? While you're sitting there staring at the fireplace, he walks in the back door. He'll go straight for the fridge, no fucks given. Makes a sandwich, grabs a beer, sits down at the table.
When I got my first look at him, I became convinced Santa, one of the only words I knew how to write at the time, was spelled wrong. Something was lost in translation over the years. Satan's little helper made for more sense at this point.
I came to learn many years later that even the most pleasant of angels is a shocking sight that most people would not be comfortable with but that's a story, for another day.
He Spoke
...but not before freezing me with fear.
They were not expecting to be spotted by anyone that year.
He gazed at me and took control of my focus while I stood there looking like a freeze-frame of someone receiving a boot up their ass by force. With our eyes locked, "You're a bad boy."
No kid wants to hear that from someone who works for the bureau of Santa during the wee hours of Christmas morning. The mischievous smile that came equipped with those words somehow made it sound like music to my ears though. The fear melted away instantly. Then he asked me to look away.
I never saw him again.
When I finally woke up, my parents were impressed. Not only did they get to sleep in because I was awake all night and couldn't pull my ass out of bed. Those cookies. All but one were still sitting on the plate.
I noticed a note beside the cookies and ask my mom what it said. Apparently, Santa only wanted one cookie this year and I was allowed to have the rest. I thought I was still sleeping, having a strange nightmare where nothing makes sense but just keeps happening anyway.
Once everything that was Christmas to me for so many days before this was now inside a black plastic garbage bag on it's way to the curb, I had one more question.
I looked under the cushion. My secret hiding place. That busted up cookie I would have been murdered over if mom found out was there, wasn't. It was gone. The mess was cleaned up.
Then I was asked to go to the kitchen. I was excited! Off I went wondering what new surprises were in store. My dad was waiting for me and it looked like he had something really important to say.
"Son?"
"Did you drink daddy's beer?"
Fin
