There’s a loose spring poking me in the ass of the vomit green couch I’m currently plastered to, but I can’t move. I miss the smell of pine that brought me so much comfort this time of year. God, I miss it. I miss that sense of same. My lungs are on fire, and my eyes are stinging, and I keep rubbing and rubbing and choking and sucking air into my lungs but nothing is working.
Mom wouldn’t buy a tree this year. She doesn’t even want to celebrate Christmas, like the rest of us don’t exist. I strung the lights myself and pulled all the goddamn decorations out of the garage myself and will celebrate Christmas myself. He’d want it this way. If he knew Mom wasn’t partaking in the holidays, he’d never forgive her. She’s sad. We’re all sad, but she doesn’t have to be a selfish bitch about it.
So I sit here in front of this plastic piece of shit. It doesn’t look real at all. It was twenty bucks at target, and I stole the money from her wallet to pay for it. If she were in her right mind, she’d understand and forgive me. She hasn’t even noticed.
I tried to make the wire branches look real, but nothing worked. I shoved that fucking tree in the corner where it belonged and threw some lights on it. I’m terrible at stringing lights. Like my six-year-old cousin could make this shit look better. I moved the baby grand piano, green and faded like a penny oxidized over the years and the ivory keys yellow like the dead elephants they came from, to the cherry wood table that was supposed to be the center of the family. It’s covered in dust and shoved in the corner of our dingy linoleum kitchen. The walls have outlines of sun stains save little brown squares, iridescent reminders of the life we should have fucking had. None of it matters anymore. Christmas is dead, but I’m going to fucking celebrate it. It’ll be the same. I’ll make it the same. It has to be the same. I choke some more and hack up some mucus and suck in more air. Nothing works.
I stand and hustle my legs into my room. If I have to stare at that tree any longer, I’ll go fucking crazy. I shouldn’t have bought it. I shouldn’t have tried to celebrate Christmas. I run past my parents’ room, plugging my ears. If I have to hear that woman cry one more time, I swear to God I will snap. The barren white hallway feels like a hospital. I hate hospitals.
I slam the door of my room, and the mirror behind it click-clacks against the door. I turn to look at it. I tacked one of my old princess sheets, folded in half and then half again, over the mirror. There’s a pin in each corner. I glare at the stupid sheet. Hana isn’t Santa. I don’t want her popping up on Christmas, sucking me into her god-forsaken world pretending everything is fine. It’s fucking not.
Write to live immortal.