Murder For Christmas

Dec 17, 2024

I watch through the window of the booth I sit in as snow falls from the night sky, gently coating the ground with more snow.

My gaze wanders to the row of shops that spread across the side of the road.

Lights of different colours litter the frames of their doors and the insides are also brightly decorated.

A homeless man sits in a corner between two stores, wrapped in a large coat as he plays carols through his saxophone, moving his body rhythmically in sync.

Some people drop money in his hat as they walk by; others stop to sing along with him for some time, while the rest just ignore him.

I watch people stride along the sidewalks, most in pairs of twos and threes, holding, laughing, and smiling.

It's Christmas Eve and there's this certain "cheer" in the air.

I hate it.

I hate Christmas.

And I hate people who acknowledge the season even more.

Every year, when December rolls around, everyone suddenly becomes someone else.

They hang up some bright lights and decorate a few trees, and all the wrongs committed throughout the year are somehow forgotten or remain unacknowledged.

Everyone is expected to be in a "merry mood"; singing songs, buying presents, and wearing matching outfits with people they probably hate.

The culture is so deep and prevalent that they even created a label for people like me who don't buy into all the bullshit, calling us "grinches."

It's all very sickening.

Unfortunately for me, the restaurant I sit in has also caught this festive bug, and every minute I spend here is more unbearable than the last.

A large, decorated tree is beside the main entrance, and lights are hung on the wall across the room.

An old jukebox at the back of the large space plays classic Christmas tunes, and for the last ten minutes, an old couple has requested the same song.

They smile as they hold each other in their arms and dance slowly in the corner.

My patience wore thin a long time ago and if I hear Mariah Carey's voice again, I'm sure my head will pop.

A sudden sharp pain stings me and I realise that I have unconsciously dug my nails deep into my palm as I tightened my fist, causing blood to draw and bruises to form in them.

Everything "Christmasy" around me must be triggering my anxiety.

Oddly, the sight of my blood calms me, so I dig my nails even deeper into both palms, watching as the crimson-red liquid drops slowly onto the table.

The pain is a welcome sensation, and I slowly feel the anxiety start to melt.

When I'm calmer, I look across the room to see if he's still sitting there, and he is.

He's why I've endured this terrible music and the choking smell of chicken for the past two hours.

He's sitting in a booth with his wife and their two kids and they all seem to be having a good time.

Right now, he is making funny faces with two fries poked in his nose, and his two boys are laughing their asses off.

From an outsider's point of view, they look like the model family: beautiful kids, loving and supportive mother, loyal and hardworking father.

From my view, it's all bullshit.

Mike Nichols might be a decent father to his sons, Jace and Timothy, but to Serah, his wife, he's as lousy a husband as they come.

Right now, he smiles and pecks her cheeks as they all laugh at Jace, who has now stuffed the fries in his own nose, but for the past four months, he has been sleeping with Martha, his new office secretary.

I watch in remorse as his wife rubs his shoulder affectionately, staring at him with a sort of wonder.

If only she knew how evil the man she was holding was.

I wonder what would make a man treat a good woman like her so disrespectfully, sneaking around the office with another woman who's twenty years his junior.

Yet tonight, he will put gifts under the Christmas tree and pretend to be the most perfect man in the world.

He would kiss his wife and hug his kids, and they'll probably wear matching pyjamas as they sing carols or watch Home Alone for the billionth time.

And that's my issue with this entire season.

Humans are wrapped, just like gifts, dressed in guises of good while they remain filthy and evil underneath.

Mike is one of such evil people, and evil must always face justice, no matter what.

At least he doesn't…

I don't complete the stray thought because Serah calls for the check, and a waitress arrives at their table.

Mike smiles at her as he pays for their food and tells her to enjoy her Christmas Eve. Then he refuses to collect the change.

She beams in excitement and thanks him, and he smiles again, squeezing his wife's hand.

I resist the urge to roll my eyes.

He's so full of shit.

That familiar pain shoots through my right hand again.

I let it linger for a few seconds, enjoying the burning sensation before I pull out some napkins and wipe the blood from my hands and off the table.

He can't see me, but I still duck in my booth as Mike Nichols leads his family out of the diner.

As soon as they get in their car and pull out of the driveway, I tug my hoodie down my head and step out of the booth.

I toss two bills as a tip for the waitress and leave my cup of coffee on the table, cold and untouched.

I walk out the doors into the freezing night air and stride quickly towards my car.

They have a head start, but I'll catch up.

Driving with my bruised palms is a little tricky at first, but I manage to pull out of the driveway and onto the main road.

I adopt a steady pace below the speed limit and cruise smoothly through the half-empty freeway.

In the summertime, you could probably wind your windows down entirely and push the speed limit a little, but doing that tonight is a death wish.

It's either you freeze to death or skid off the road and crash. Dying isn't in my plans tonight.

Not my death, anyways.

I keep my eyes on the road as I turn on the radio and immediately regret it.

Jingle Bell Rock is playing, and the song transports me back to a distant, almost buried memory.

I'm seven years old again, under the Christmas tree at home. Grandma is holding me. Grandpa is telling us a story, and Dad is holding Mom. He's smiling at her like he loves her, and for some reason, she's smiling back at him. I want to scream at her. To tell her he's pretending again. Tell her to remember how she got the scar just below her face. Tell her it's still obvious, even though she tried to cover it up with her powder. But the sounds don't form in my mouth. Dad looks down at me and he smiles. But not the good kind. It's the kind that reminds me I'm helpless. And weak. I glare at him and I squeeze my fists as hard as possible. Then harder. And harder…

Loud horns and bright lights suddenly blare at me and I swerve sharply to my right to avoid hitting an oncoming truck.

The vehicles narrowly miss collision and I'm shocked back into the present.

I hold the steering wheel tightly and my entire body is rigid.

I turn off the radio; then I try to steady my breath. Easing the air in and out, slowly.

My anger gradually starts to dissolve, and I relax my grip on the wheel.

Pull yourself together, man.

I see the familiar intersection and drive off the main road and onto a muddy path.

The road is bumpy and crooked, but I easily navigate the vehicle through the ridges of the rough terrain.

Eventually, I stop and park my car beside a huge tree.

Through the side mirror, I can see the house in the distance, small yet so inviting.

I touch my pocket to confirm that my present is still there, then I get out of the vehicle.

I stretch, pull my hoodie back on, and break into a slight jog.

I've been here once before, so I know this area reasonably well.

The full moon and a ridiculous number of stars are out tonight.

Some kid somewhere is probably looking out his window, waiting to see Santa fly across the sky on his reindeer sled.

I was once that stupid kid.

Before I knew Christmas for the façade it really is.

I pass by some wreaths hanging on a tree.

I try to ignore them initially, but I can't help the spite they trigger in me, so I return and drag them off the wall.

I throw them to the ground and I stomp on them.

Satisfaction rushes through me when I finish.

The Nichols' residence has no fence, just like the other houses in this area, and Mike's car is parked out in front of the house.

I can see the light coming from some rooms inside the house, so I ensure I'm unseen as I sneak onto the property.

I walk to the back of the house and the kitchen door is locked, like it was the last time I came.

But I pick it open now as easily as I did then.

Opening the door slowly, I silently walk into the kitchen and close it behind me.

The loud volume of the television masks the heavy sound of my feet as I walk deeper into the kitchen.

I can hear the family in the living room, their hushed voices accompanied by the sounds and music from the movie they are watching.

I also hear the laughter and excited shrieks of a child.

I inspect the cabinets hanging on the wall, one by one, till I find the tool suitable for my purpose.

I run the tip slightly across my thumb, and it pricks the skin immediately.

Perfect.

Suddenly, I hear footsteps approaching fast from the passageway and I quickly close the cabinet doors.

I crouch on the ground just behind the door, blade in hand, ready to strike.

I'm about to pounce but I hold back when I see who enters the kitchen.

It's Jace, the youngest son.

He doesn't see me, but I watch him climb a stool to reach the sink before he turns on the tap, washes his hands, picks a napkin, and dries off.

He's about to return to the rest of his family when he sees me and freezes.

I smile at him and place my left index finger to my lips in a "shh" motion.

I walk slowly toward him, one hand behind my back, holding the knife, and I stretch the other to him.

"It's okay," I whisper. "Let's go meet your Daddy."

He nods and he takes my hand.

I allow him to lead me down the passage, past the staircase and a wall covered with framed family photos.

When we get to the living room, the rest of the family is cuddling on the sofa, and Home Alone is playing on the TV, as expected.

Another buried memory threatens to resurface, but I kill it immediately.

I scoop Jace into my arms and watch them laugh along with the movie, oblivious to my presence.

This goes on for a few more minutes, and I'm slightly amused by how dangerous ignorance can be.

Serah must eventually wonder why her son hasn't returned because she calls out for him.

When he doesn't answer, she turns and sees me.

Her eyes widen in shock.

"Mike!" she screams as she jumps to her feet.

The entire family reacts in alarm and stares at me with dumbfounded expressions.

I'm definitely not the surprise guest they were expecting tonight.

I wonder how I look to them—dressed in all back, wearing black gloves and a black hoodie, holding the little child in my arms.

Mike starts to advance at me and I slowly reveal the knife in my hand as I shake my head at him.

He stops approaching, and I see him swallow in fear.

Serah grabs Timothy and holds him tight, but her eyes are fixed on the other son in my arms.

"You know what happens if you make any sound," I tell her, and she closes her mouth.

"Don't hurt us," Mike Nichols pleads. "We have money. Cash, credit cards, everything. There's a few jewelries in our safe. Take whatever you want, please."

Disgust rises in me.

"Shut up!" I spit, my voice harsh. "Sit down. All of you!"

He is hesitant at first, but his resolve shatters when I slowly raise the knife towards Jace.

He sits on the chair and Serah hesitantly sits down beside him.

I place Jace on the ground, and he runs into the arms of his parents.

His mother holds him in her hands, sobbing and kissing his face.

His father hugs his family and tells them nothing will happen to them.

I feel a deep pang of jealousy stab my heart, yet I give them a moment.

They seem to have forgotten my presence till I walk to the front of the television and turn it off, bringing the room to a sudden silence.

I face the family of four and watch as they hold onto each other for comfort, the terror written clear on their faces.

They look at me like I'm some monster, unaware that the real monster is sitting there in their midst.

He looks at me again, trying to put up a front of courage.

"Please," he pleads. "Don't hurt my family. Just tell us what you want."

I gesture to him.

"Stand up."

He slowly does.

I motion for him to come forward.

Serah holds his hand tightly, begging him not to go, but he squeezes her hand, whispers something I do not hear into her ears, and then shakes her hand off.

He walks over and stands in front of me.

I'm much taller than he is, so he raises his head to look up at me, but he struggles to hold my gaze, and I can see the fear in his eyes.

"Kneel down. Face them," I say to him.

He turns around, trembling as he goes to his knees and faces his family.

Serah is sobbing, and she holds her two boys even tighter.

The three of them look scared and confused, but I understand that they don't understand that I'm doing this for their sake.

I pull Mike's gift from my pocket and give it to him.

It's a card, the same type my Dad would write letters to us in and keep in our presents during Christmas.

His cards were always full of lies, but this one is not.

Mike Nichols knows it's not because as soon as he reads it, he turns to me, his eyes wide in fear or shock.

I think it's a bit of both.

"Read it to them," I say to him. "Aloud."

"Please," he begs.

I lift the knife and place it under his throat.

"Read. It. Aloud. Now."

"Boys, go to your room," Serah says, trying to remove them both from her arms. "Now!"

"No!" I shout, and they all flinch back. "They stay."

They all sit and I turn my attention back to Mike.

I press the knife deeper into his throat so it's now pricking the surface of his skin.

"Go ahead, Mike. Read."

"I have sinned," he starts, reading the words I wrote down for him.

His voice is strained.

"Serah, I have sinned against you. For the past four months, I have been… sleeping with Martha, and lying to you."

I feel a sense of vindication when I see the shock on her face.

Now she understands.

I resist the urge to smile under my hoodie.

"Serah, I am not the man you think I am. I am not worthy of your love. No amount of gifts will change that. I will not ask you for forgiveness because I was fully aware of my actions whilst I carried them out. I am not a good man. I'm a terrible sinner who knew exactly what he was doing. I did not make any mistakes, and tonight, I… I receive my judgement."

He breaks down into tears as he reads the last words on the card.

Serah is also crying, and so is Timothy.

Jace is rubbing his mother's face, telling her to stop.

"I'm sorry Serah, I'm so so sorry," Mike says, tears clogging his throat.

"No, you're not!" I shout, slapping him across the face. "You did it on purpose."

"Please," Mike begs, clutching his face as he continues to cry. "It won't happen again. I'm sorry."

His words and the pain behind them trigger another memory, and this time, it overwhelms me before I can stop it.

I'm eight years old again, and I'm sitting at the dining table. Dad is reading a newspaper. I think he's in a good mood today. Maybe it's because Christmas is only a few days away. It's usually when he's the nicest to us. Grandma and Grandpa always visit too, and he's much calmer around them. Mom serves us dinner, and we sit.

Suddenly, Dad is angry. He says she put too much salt in the food. He says she did it on purpose. He's yelling. She's yelling. He's angry that she's yelling. She tries to walk away. He slaps her and pushes her to the ground. She yells at me to go to my room. I don't. I want to help her. But I can't. He's too strong. He's hitting her again. And again. She's crying. She's begging.

But he doesn't stop. She tells him it won't happen again. But he doesn't stop. He keeps hitting her. And hitting. And hitting. Then he stops. Dad runs out of the room. Mom isn't moving. Why isn't Mom moving? Why is there so much blood? I'm holding her hand. I'm screaming her name. Her eyes are open. She's looking at me. But she doesn't answer. Why won't she answer?

I scream louder. She still doesn't answer. Her eyes are closed. She's gone. I think she's gone. I couldn't help her. I should have saved her. I was too weak. Now she's gone. She's left me alone with him. Why did she leave me? Why did you leave me, Mom? Tears pour down my face. Then more tears. Then more…

"Please, don't hurt me. I'm sorry."

Mike Nichols' words snap me out of my daze, and I see my Dad kneeling in front of me.

He's begging me not to hurt him, just like she begged him that night.

"Shut up!" I yell.

The rage overwhelms me.

I grab him by the collar of his shirt, and I punch him to the ground.

He's still begging, but I don't listen. He didn't listen to her.

I kneel on top of him, and I raise the knife.

"You have sinned and you must receive judgement."

"Don't kill him!" Serah screams, falling to her knees. "Please. Think of my boys. I forgive him! Please."

She's crying profusely.

I look at her and I don't understand.

She still loves him? Even after knowing who he truly is? But why?

She should be happy. He's evil. He's not good for her.

Then it hits me.

She's weak.

Just like my mother was.

Too weak to run. Too weak to save herself.

That's why I'm here.

To save her before he kills her.

And to save his sons before they become monsters like him.

To deliver justice.

I bring the knife down in one quick motion, and it goes through his neck.

The blade nestles in the flesh and stays there.

He's choking as blood gushes out from his throat and his nose and his mouth.

He makes a disturbing gargling sound as he tries to pull the blade from his neck, but he can't.

So I help him.

I pull the knife out and stab I stab my Dad in his chest.

Again. And again. And again. Just like he did to my mother.

Someone is screaming; it's desperate and urgent.

It sounds like me when I was begging him to stop hitting her.

But it's Serah, and before I know it, she kicks me hard in the ribcage and knocks the wind out of me.

I stumble to the ground, stunned.

She's about to hit me again with something, but I react fast and catch her hand.

Then I push her away, and she stumbles a bit before she falls to the ground, bumping into the sofa.

Her sons run to her side and hold her.

"He doesn't love you, Mom! Can't you see? He's only pretending because it's Christmas!" I scream at her in exasperation.

I'm frustrated.

Why doesn't she understand?

I climb to my feet.

I turn to look at Dad.

I want to scream at him and tell him I'm no longer weak, but he's not there.

Mike Nichols' lifeless body is.

I walk over to him and pull the blade from his chest. His card is on the floor, so I pick it up and put it on him.

I turn to look at Mom, but she's no longer there.

Serah is.

She's still crying and she hides her two boys fiercely behind her.

Like I am the monster.

Like I would ever hurt innocent people.

Like I was him.

"He'll never hurt you again," I say to her. "You're free."

I give her a weak smile; then I walk back through the passageway into the kitchen and out of the house.

I break into a sprint back towards my car.

No neighbouring houses are nearby, but I can't take the chance that someone heard all that screaming and called the police.

I can't get caught, not now when I'm so close to the end.

As I run, adrenaline fills me, and I am alive again.

Mike Nichols got his justice— the justice he deserved.

The justice my father avoided when he killed himself in that prison cell.

I get to my car, unlock the door, and enter it.

I give myself a moment to bask in my victory.

I take a deep breath and ignite the vehicle.

It roars back to life.

I will go home, clean myself up, and get some rest.

My journey is not over yet.

At the start of the month, I had seven cards.

After tonight, I have only two left.

Each is for a man who has sinned and will not escape justice.

They will all beg for mercy like she did, but they will receive none.

I will watch them bleed to death, and I will not be weak again.

The thought makes me happy and I feel a burst of energy swell within.

I think I'm even having an erection.

That's when an odd thought crosses my mind, and I say it aloud.

"Merry Christmas."

Fun fact - I originally wrote this story around this time last year and I still love it as much as I did then.
Writing mentally challenged characters»»» 🙂‍↕️
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