Rolls of heat rolled off the windows, happy people in the warm houses, presents under the tree, the warm fireplaces. He could clearly imagine those rosy faces of children, the soft lines created by a large grin, always a goofy smile that made one feel happy, if for a moment. The adults also, standing at their stations monitoring the children, and remembering, talking of days past, of the best holidays.
He walked out in the cold street, ice leaving a frost that semi-obscured the sidewalks true pallor. Cold entered through the opening of his jacket, where his neck was. When it did he automatically shivered, the kind of spastic shiver, he could stop shivering if he wanted to, grin and bear it, but he didn’t.
On Monday, everybody would be back to work, as if nothing had happened, the way it should be. He liked Mondays because nothing ever changed, it was the beginning of something new, and there were never any requirements or due dates on Monday, at least none he cared for.
It was a time for love and happiness. Sheepishly he sloughed through a crowd of friendly if somewhat intoxicated people. They welcomed him with raised cups, yells of “New Guy”, everything to make him feel at home. He noticed their efforts, but strangely was never able to show appreciation. The silence ensued, the crazy one of unsaid words, the awkward teetering on the sides of his shoe before the eventual quiet exit. He assumed it was his anti-social behavior.
It’s absurd to give one self an analysis, but he commonly did. Rather harshly. He was always the awkward one, who would sift around through friends until finding his comfort group. Usually he didn’t. He blamed myself, after all there were all these fine people, with personalities ranging from avid book reader to rambunctious party-goer, not to say those two are always separate.
Christmas never did it for him, a young twenty-something, he was the child of the change. The man of destiny. His whims were the fabled historical choices to the children of tomorrow, surrounding me were crowds of young bohemian thinkers, and their adversaries. Even so, every Christmas come round he found himself drinking eggnog and vodka from a cold glass, in a cold apartment. He noticed one thing though, the TV programs hosted on Christmas are always the same, and Charles Schultz never got old.
But there is one thing, He knew everyone should be happy, He knew everyone was getting presents on that holiday, sipping eggnog surrounded by a bunch of relatives all talking about their barely connected lives. Or going to chic parties in the basement of one’s best friend and drinking sweet under-age beer, but sometimes, somewhere, one grows out of that. Usually at the age of 21.
The hustle and bustle of holiday shopping was at an ease. The most horrific sight of the holidays was merely the after-Christmas shopping, everyone scrambling into the malls to find the cheapest bargains. Sometimes He even pretended the shoppers were barbarian hordes meeting one another for the first time, both speaking foreign languages and making gestures at objects they both wanted.
He didn’t quite see it, this early in the morning, with the fresh frosty grass crunching under his feet. He patted his pocket reassuringly and felt the comforting pressure. He liked walking in the morning, it was fresh and cold, allowed him to observe nature without anyone else in the world. He really despised other people because they never could sit and watch the trees, breath in the scents.
And on that Christmas morning he sat in the grass. He felt the cool brisk ice, melting against his exposed neck as he lay on the ground. And smiling for the first time, he pulled the gun out of his pocket, rubbing his finger over the engraved grip. He pulled it up to the side of his head, feeling the barrel pushing into his skull. Smiling still he pulled the trigger, and said, “Bang”.
As he had done every Christmas.
|
Submission Name: Christmas Tradition.
