Christmas, Bloody, Christmas

Note before you read: Yes, I know its February. I wrote this on Christmas Eve but never got the chance to share it, so... yeah. Here you go.





It was paradise, I lived in a small New York town, nice house, parents that loved and took care of me, and the sound of other kids playing along with the smell of fresh apple pie being set out on the window to cool.

One day, school was just let out for Christmas Break, I was excited to go home to my parents. I watched as the kids ran and played and threw snowballs at each other, I even joined in for a bit until I was overcome with joy as I saw my grandfather standing in front of his red Jalopy.

"Hello, Junior." He said as I ran into his arms like some overjoyed kid getting his gift on his birthday.

On the drive home he told me a story behind Christmas. A story of saints, saviors and gift giving, all that good stuff. He told me of a place where good people go when they die, that nothing but good things happens there, a bearded man that welcomed you at its gates, a massive golden street to walk, and things that you would think exist only in your dreams.

"Is there such a thing as a bad person," I asked, "where do they go?"

"That’s a story I’ll have to tell you later, Junior."

I was astounded that such a place would exist. As we stopped and reached the front door of my house he told me that my parents were headed there right at this very moment.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

At that point his warm and rosy smile quickly shifted into a malevolent grin. My once beloved grandfather I knew was gone. He grabbed and gagged me with tape and began yelling and cursing at me like I killed his dog.

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I felt like a word; the same word a cancer patient feels when given the news that he only has a couple of months to live. Transfixed.

I couldn’t breathe as my grandfather dragged me up the stairs, he even struck me a couple of times. I wanted to die right there. I heard the screams and pleads of my parents. right then I heard other men screaming right back at them.

One of the men held a gun up to my father’s head, urging him to give them information on some shipment, he had no idea what they were talking about; the man took that as a challenge and socked him a few times. I didn’t notice it, but I was crying.

My mother pleaded and begged for them to stop but was also struck. I felt a great anger inside me, I wanted this all to go away, for everything to go back to normal, back to the days where I had not a worry in the world. Before I knew it, the tension in the room increased, the men started yelling louder, my so-called grandfather still had that grin on his mug waiting for the climax, my mother still weeping and bauling and screaming her eyes out and I, the helpless little boy, just sat there and watched as the travesty unfolded before me.

I tried to look away but grandpa grabbed my hair and jerked it, telling me to watch the show.

"We’re sending your parents to that place I told you about." He snickered.

I futilely attempted to break free of his grip and save my parents with tears in my eyes and unfaltering fury, I even tried punching him to break loose, but it was no use, I could only hear his laughs. I guess he thought it was pretty funny.

I called out to my mother as the man held the pistol to her head, his finger on the trigger. Same goes for my father, his bloody face the same color of the toy firetruck in my room. The second I broke free there were two deafening exploding sounds. I thought it was my television set’s volume being too high, but no, it was gunshots. My parents sat there in their chairs with red liquid running down both their heads, their eyes were still open but they were blank. Grandpa finally released his grip and walked out of the room along with his men. He mouthed something as he left but I couldn’t quite make out what he said. I didn’t notice it at first but there were police sirens outside my house. The police officers burst into the room to find me sitting in the room with a look as blank as my parents.

Then I remembered the question: “Is there such a thing as a bad person?” This was my cruel reminder. As I was being questioned by the police I figured out what grandpa said:

I live to give.

I demand that your story become a writing event entry! It is something to do with fairy tales and it elicited feelings of disgust, as intended!

I am left wondering why that old madman embarked on a massacre and who were his accomplices though. Not central to the plot but my curiosity is piqued.

I did not quite understand what the old fart meant by "I live to give." Can you enlighten me?

Why, thank you sir. The phrase "I live to give" is something of a recurring phrase I plan to use for throughout the story. Given that the story revolves around Christmas, the phrase symbolizes the "kindness" the old man has done the main character by sending his parents to the other world. You see, pappy thinks himself a saint or a prophet.

I see. Did the old fart kill his own children or were his victims strangers?

Sadly, I haven't determined that yet. However one of the victims were his family.

I see. This seems like a high-tension prologue. Seeing this continue would be great.

Also the word "semi-long hair" took me out of the tension.

Good writing, nonetheless.

I agree. Take out "semi-long." If we must know that Junior has semi-long hair, point that out before the action starts. In my opinion, action should be sweet and to the point, not the time to go into detail. Don't get me wrong. I'm not trying to say "Semi-long hair" is super detailed information or anything, but you could just as easily reveal something like a character's description another time in the story.

'Kay, semi-long has been removed. If there's any more criticism, I'd love to hear it.