Twelve: A Christmas Story
By Ray Saint
The sound of
shattered glass punctuated flashes of red and white light and the scream I realized later was my own. The face, beaten back from my hood: bruised, bloodied. And empty.
For a year, four shots had been sufficient to drown the memory. Seven drinks in and I knew tonight I wouldn’t be so fortunate. And why not? Hadn’t it been one year, after all? Hadn’t it been just last Christmas Eve?
The eighth shot didn’t help, either.
My mother called to ask if I’d be home tomorrow. I said honestly I didn’t know. In the background I heard the cracked, pre-adolescent voice of my kid brother: Falalalala… la la la LA.
“I hate to think of you all by yourself for Christmas,” she’d said. I told her I was swamped with work, and anyway I’d met someone. Sure, I lied; but it soothed her guilt.
After the tenth shot, I could still see the body collide with my car, but his face was a blur. Number eleven erased the sound of squealing tires.
I downed my twelfth drink at exactly midnight and the room turned black.
From the darkness, like stars in hyper drive, snow flew at my windshield both chaotic and hypnotic. As I gripped my steering wheel it shattered, blood and alcohol mingling and stinging my wounded hands. I heard the first chime of my grandfather clock. A vision. A memory.
Post-traumatic Stress, maybe. Maybe I’d bone up on my psychology.
As I left my glass where it lay to run my hands under the tap, a voice said, “You didn’t call the police.”
The voice had come from outside my window, I’d swear it. When I looked out, I felt the jolt of my car hitting a solid object; heard the sickening thud and saw the body fly backward – the eyes dead.
“Didn’t even stop.” A different voice. Back in my kitchen.
“He’d probably be with his family right now,” said a third voice. “Singing Christmas carols or something.”
“Angels we have heard on high!” The disembodied voices joined in twisted harmony.
He was Dead! Already Dead! I saw it in his eyes! His life was over… would ruining my own bring him back?!
My protests never reached my lips. The room had changed again. A malevolence I hadn’t noticed before had disappeared. Then I screamed.
Standing before me was the most horrible vision yet: my victim – whole. Unharmed, as he was before I’d killed him.
"God, no," I whispered.
But he only shook his head. “Where are your accusers?” he asked.
I’m so sorry, I wept. I begged him to take retribution; to kill me or beat me or maim me. I fell to my face, and when I looked up I saw him still through my tears. His eyes not hollow like before but sad, pitying.
“I forgive you,” he said.
The clock sounded its second chime.
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Ray Saint lives in New York State. He was previously published in the October Issue of Digital Dragon Magazine.
