“That’s right, I killed Santa.”
The words were out of my mouth, sharp and final, as I watched the light dim in my five-year-old son’s eyes. My heart clenched, painfully aware of what I’d just done. Each letter carved its way onto the muscle beating inside my chest, but I pushed on, standing a little straighter, gripping the box in my hand a little tighter, and frowning just a little to scare him off.
A classic tragedy for kids his age. He’ll move on, I told myself.
He clamped a chubby hand over his mouth, as if holding the cry in his throat. Not yet. Not in front of me. He scurried away, tiny feet thudding up the staircase, followed by the soft click of his bedroom door and a muffled scream into his pillow. I turned back to the cardboard box in my hands, sighing as I tore down the red stockings and Christmas decorations my son had carelessly hung around the house this afternoon.
It was Christmas Eve, but to me, it was only the 24th of December. Nothing more. There would be no Santa Claus coming down the chimney, no warm milk and freshly baked cookies near the fireplace, and certainly no presents stuffed inside red stockings. Christmas was banned in this house.
As the hour hand struck 9 pm, the first snow fell outside the living room window. I placed the box on the floor and walked over to the picture window, the silence in the house pressing in on me. The snow drifted down from a gaping black sky, looking almost like static on a dead channel, each flake a fragment of a memory I tried to bury. I pulled the curtains shut and sank onto the sofa, letting myself tune out so that the only sound heard was the cackling of the firewood in front of me.
The house looked bare—naked—as if the magic of Christmas could not touch it. The walls were beige, and the countertops were empty, not a single speck of red or green to be seen. Even the lights were a cold, distant grey—a decoration fit for a funeral.
The silence was a living thing; it crept up on me like a thick fog, curling its skeletal fingers around my neck until my breath hitched. It was broken only by the soft, rhythmic thump… thump… thump… from upstairs. Ollie was kicking his bed, lashing out with all his pent-up anger at inanimate objects. After all, I had just ruined magic for him.
Just as I thought this day couldn’t get any worse, the doorbell rang. Its high-pitched ring pierced the silence like a shot. I walked around the sofa and pulled back the front door.
“Hey, Maizie, it’s me, Emelia!” It was my overly cheerful neighbour.
“Hey,” I gave a curt nod, not knowing how to respond to her enthusiasm.
“Just have some leftover Christmas pudding, I figured you and Ollie could share them,” she squeezed in through the narrow gap between the door, holding a tray in her hand as she made her way to the kitchen countertop. “I’ll leave them right here.”
There was an awkward silence while I trailed behind her into the kitchen, and then she asked, “How are you holding up? I know this time of the year must be so hard for you.”
Her face visibly softened, the corner of her lips tipping up into an uncomfortable smile as if she thought I might break down and start crying. I shuffled in my place, nervously rubbing a hand down my arms.
“Fine.”
“Good! I can see you’re putting up some Christmas decorations as well.” She was looking at the box of ornaments and tinsel I had yet to throw away. “For Ollie, I suppose.”
I chuckled nervously.
“Like I said, time heals all wounds.” She turned to leave, and I followed suit to the front porch. “If you ever need anything, just let me know, okay. I’m always here for you.”
My fingers twitched, and I clenched them in a fist behind my back, my nails digging into my palms until they left a faint crescent-shaped mark on my skin. I gave her a stiff smile instead. When she finally bid her goodbyes and trod down the few steps of my front porch, I slammed the door shut and leaned against it.
The phrase ‘time heals all wounds’ played like a broken record in my head. I could hear my own blood rushing in my ears as the hair on the back of my neck prickled. Funny how these words peeled away the scab on an old wound instead. I laughed, tears welling up in my eyes while I tried to clench around my heart, willing it to stop throbbing in pain, but all I could do was clutch the thin fabric worn over it. Time hadn’t healed anything. It only gave loss more room to echo.
“Mommy?”
I sucked in a shaky breath, wiping away the tears from my eyes with an angry swipe. “I’m here, Ollie. Go to bed.”
It was almost 12 o’clock, and the sound coming from Ollie’s bedroom had died down. I poured myself a whiskey, letting the burning sensation of the alcohol linger at the back of my throat before making its way down. I leaned against the countertop in the kitchen, keeping an eye on the top of the stairs just in case my son decided he wanted to see if Santa was really dead for himself. The ticking of the clock echoed in the silence—2 minutes to 12 am. Taking another sip, I eyed the clock wearily, the digital numbers illuminating the dark kitchen with its weak neon lights.
11:59
A minute passed by, but instead of 00:00, it showed 11:60
Then, 11:61.
The air in the room did not so much as stir, yet the fine hair on my arms and the nape of my neck raised in a primal salute. The smell of whiskey was suddenly too strong, and the cackle of the fireplace—once a soothing backdrop—sharpened to a distinct sound of each ember splitting apart.
Pressure built in my chest, crushing down on my lungs as if I were underwater. Every breath I take was as heavy as an anchor at the bottom of the sea. I stumbled to my knees, the immense weight of the anchor chain dragging me down.
And I was falling,
Falling,
Falling,
Until I felt the ghost of his hand in mine.
When I opened my eyes, I was held tightly in two strong arms that felt all too familiar. The smell of cashmere filled the air, a scent that brought tears to my eyes, reminding me of how much I used to miss it. His hand was on the small of my back, and another was intertwined with mine, raised above my shoulders. He was guiding me, stepping side to side—each step delicate and precise as if we were treading on ice.
It was only then that I realised we were dancing, swaying side to side to the soft carol playing in the background. My long satin night gown swished against his trousers. The house was brightly lit, as if it were bathed in a warm orange glow. Behind him, the dining table was lavishly set, laden with everyone’s favourite dishes, all surrounding a golden roasted turkey. A riot of thoughts ran through my mind; I couldn’t even focus on the quiet between us. A Christmas feast? Who prepared it?
I let my gaze drift from the room to find him. His chestnut hair was tousled, yet every strand fell perfectly into place, softening his features. My eyes travelled down to his lidded eyes, where I saw my own reflection gazing back from his pupil—my brown curls spilling over bare shoulders, shifting now and then to reveal the delicate line of my collarbone.
Everything was impossibly perfect.
Mommy.
Ollie. I pulled away from him, abruptly breaking our slow promenade.
“Sorry,” I said when I saw pain briefly flashing through his eyes. “Our son… where is he?”
When he didn’t answer, I backed away, whipping my head around in search of Ollie. Except that he was nowhere to be found, and there were an overwhelming number of Christmas decorations around the house. LED lights strung from wall to wall, hidden behind garish tinsels to illuminate the walls with various colours. A large red stocking hung on the front door, and even the fireplace was decorated with miniature nutcracker dolls. Then, there was the Christmas tree. Its large size colonised a quarter of the living room, littered from top to bottom with ornaments, candy canes, and tiny snowflakes.
My heart raced, pounding within my chest so hard I could hear it in my ears. There were too many things. Wasn’t Christmas banned? I turned around to find him still standing in the exact spot I left him. He looked just a tad bit too pale, almost translucent.
I walked up to him, “What’s with all these decorations? I thought we agreed not to celebrate Christmas anymore… because you hated it.”
He bent down to meet my eyes, tucking a stray curl behind my ears. His eyes glistened with tears, and they were so beautiful and so tender when they looked into mine, I wanted to melt into them forever. Yet, I could tell there was a tinge of sorrow behind them. Or was it disappointment?
“No, darling,” his voice wrapped around me like a warm blanket. His lips twisted into a bitter smile. “We didn’t. You did.”
All of a sudden, everything came crashing down on me, a wave of guilt and regret and longing washing away any warmth left. He straightened and turned to look up the stairs, where Ollie’s bedroom is located, letting his eyes wander just a second longer as if hoping to see Ollie one last time.
A soft murmur drifted down the staircase, a little boy’s dream sound. The kind that always made Ollie seem smaller than he was.
“Don’t go,” I said frantically, panic rising up in my throat as the wounds in my mind bled freely. I wanted to run up to him, to hold him in my arms and never let go. I couldn’t let him go. Not then, not now.
“I have to.” He stepped back, and then his form slipped through the front door as if it were nothing but air.
The clock in the kitchen flickered once, twice, and then snapped back to 00:00. The neon words beneath it shone 25th of December.
Christmas came anyway.
Written by: Yu En
