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CougarGirl
Star
- Joined
- Nov 5, 2013
It was a long time in the planning. There had been several abortive attempts. This year, though, I was confident it would succeed.
What was that? What did you say? Oh, right, what plan? Yes, I’d better tell you that. I was going to kill Santa Claus.
Not another question. What is it this time? Why? Do you really have to ask why? Surely everyone over the age of 5 knows why. Alright, I’ll explain.
I first noticed the problem when I was 8. It must have been going on longer, though. All the time, in fact. I’d written this nice letter to Santa, telling him exactly what I wanted for Christmas. It was the latest doll and I was very explicit about it. It had to be one that I could feed with a bottle and change when she wet herself. And she had to close her eyes when I rocked her to sleep. I even told Santa what she was to be called – Matilda – so he’d pick one that was just right for that name.
The first thing I looked for under the tree on Christmas morning was my doll. Sure enough, there was a doll-shaped box. I ripped off the wrapping paper and pulled out my doll, discarding the box over my shoulder. I knew right away that Santa had got it wrong. No way was this Matilda. She had a bottle, but I couldn’t put water in it to feed her. She had a nappy, but she didn’t wet herself. Her eyes did open and shut, but that was all he had got right. I threw the doll onto the floor and never touched her again.
After that, I kept a careful note and, sure enough, every year Santa got it wrong. It seemed that the more exact I was in my instructions, the more likely he was to come up with something quite different. Did he need new glasses? Or were his elves illiterate?
I got angrier every year. Until I was 11, when Michael misled me. He lived across the road and was always doing naughty things to girls. He’d pull our hair or lift our skirts. That year, he came up behind me and whispered that Santa Claus didn’t exist. It was really my dad dressed up in costume, he said. Just like all those Santas you saw in the street or in stores, he wasn’t real. I cried and kept watch to prove him wrong. And I did. I heard laughter coming from my parents’ room and, when I crept along to see what was happening, dad was dressed up like Santa and mom was wearing a skimpy elf’s costume. They were using words I didn’t know and talking about things I didn’t understand. Dad wasn’t pretending to be Santa Claus, he was just playing dressing up games with mom, like I used to do sometimes.
I knew Michael was wrong, but he convinced all my friends, so I kept quiet about it and planned. I still sent letters to Santa, but I didn’t tell dad and mom what was in them. And most years Santa delivered something similar to what I had asked for, but never quite the right one. Now doesn’t that just prove he really exists? If he was really dad dressed up, how did he know what was in a letter he had never seen?
Listening to my friends after Christmas, I realised that they were having the same problem. They never quite got what they wanted. This wasn’t right. Someone had to do something and that someone was me. But what could I do? I thought a lot about it before deciding that Santa had to die. Someone would then take his place. Someone younger, more up to the job, with better eyesight.
But there were problems. I needed to start awake for a start. And that proved difficult. However hard I tried, I fell asleep and slept soundly. I went to the sitting room as soon as I woke, but whatever the time, he had always been before I got there. It was like he could read my mind. Being comfortable was a big part of the problem too. It was cold sitting up all night. I couldn’t leave the heating on or he would notice and suspect someone was about. So I ended up going to bed and then of course I fell asleep.
This year, though, I had all those problems sorted. I put on my warmest pyjamas and my thick dressing gown, with a hot water bottle tucked inside, and settled into the corner of the sitting room. I laid the carving knife beside me.
I nodded off a couple of times, but each time the cold woke me. It was just as I was coming to the second time that I heard a noise. Someone as opening a window. I cringed back further into the corner, holding my breath, peering into the darkness. The door of the sitting room opened slowly and Santa walked in, heading straight for the tree. As he bend over the presents, I picked up the knife and rose to my feet. I knew I’d have to disable him first before stabbing him, but I knew how to do that, I’d done it often enough to my brother. I moved around behind him and delivered a kick, right between his legs, as high and as hard as I could make it. He cursed in a very unSanta-like manner, but he didn’t fall down like my brother. He spun round and before I could do anything he grabbed the knife from my hand and slashed at me. I staggered back, but the point of the blade caught my hand. I screamed and kicked at his groin, harder this time, and he dropped the knife as he crumpled up.
I was about to pick up the knife when all the lights came on. Mom grabbed hold of me and pulled me back. As she hustled me out of the room, out of the corner of my eye I saw dad hit Santa once, hard, right on the point of his jaw.
Mom had dressed my cut by the time that the police came. Everyone fussed over me and told me how brave I was to tackle the burglar who’d been robbing houses every Christmas Eve for years.
No, no, I insisted. That’s wrong. this is nothing to do with a burglar. You’ve got it wrong. This was Santa. I was lying in wait for him because he never brought children the presents they really wanted. I was going to kill him. I’d planned all this for years.
Mom and dad exchanged an odd look and the police officer led me to the patrol car. I didn’t want to go, but mom gave me a hug and told me it would be for the best. She was crying as I was driven away.
What was that? What did you say? Oh, right, what plan? Yes, I’d better tell you that. I was going to kill Santa Claus.
Not another question. What is it this time? Why? Do you really have to ask why? Surely everyone over the age of 5 knows why. Alright, I’ll explain.
I first noticed the problem when I was 8. It must have been going on longer, though. All the time, in fact. I’d written this nice letter to Santa, telling him exactly what I wanted for Christmas. It was the latest doll and I was very explicit about it. It had to be one that I could feed with a bottle and change when she wet herself. And she had to close her eyes when I rocked her to sleep. I even told Santa what she was to be called – Matilda – so he’d pick one that was just right for that name.
The first thing I looked for under the tree on Christmas morning was my doll. Sure enough, there was a doll-shaped box. I ripped off the wrapping paper and pulled out my doll, discarding the box over my shoulder. I knew right away that Santa had got it wrong. No way was this Matilda. She had a bottle, but I couldn’t put water in it to feed her. She had a nappy, but she didn’t wet herself. Her eyes did open and shut, but that was all he had got right. I threw the doll onto the floor and never touched her again.
After that, I kept a careful note and, sure enough, every year Santa got it wrong. It seemed that the more exact I was in my instructions, the more likely he was to come up with something quite different. Did he need new glasses? Or were his elves illiterate?
I got angrier every year. Until I was 11, when Michael misled me. He lived across the road and was always doing naughty things to girls. He’d pull our hair or lift our skirts. That year, he came up behind me and whispered that Santa Claus didn’t exist. It was really my dad dressed up in costume, he said. Just like all those Santas you saw in the street or in stores, he wasn’t real. I cried and kept watch to prove him wrong. And I did. I heard laughter coming from my parents’ room and, when I crept along to see what was happening, dad was dressed up like Santa and mom was wearing a skimpy elf’s costume. They were using words I didn’t know and talking about things I didn’t understand. Dad wasn’t pretending to be Santa Claus, he was just playing dressing up games with mom, like I used to do sometimes.
I knew Michael was wrong, but he convinced all my friends, so I kept quiet about it and planned. I still sent letters to Santa, but I didn’t tell dad and mom what was in them. And most years Santa delivered something similar to what I had asked for, but never quite the right one. Now doesn’t that just prove he really exists? If he was really dad dressed up, how did he know what was in a letter he had never seen?
Listening to my friends after Christmas, I realised that they were having the same problem. They never quite got what they wanted. This wasn’t right. Someone had to do something and that someone was me. But what could I do? I thought a lot about it before deciding that Santa had to die. Someone would then take his place. Someone younger, more up to the job, with better eyesight.
But there were problems. I needed to start awake for a start. And that proved difficult. However hard I tried, I fell asleep and slept soundly. I went to the sitting room as soon as I woke, but whatever the time, he had always been before I got there. It was like he could read my mind. Being comfortable was a big part of the problem too. It was cold sitting up all night. I couldn’t leave the heating on or he would notice and suspect someone was about. So I ended up going to bed and then of course I fell asleep.
This year, though, I had all those problems sorted. I put on my warmest pyjamas and my thick dressing gown, with a hot water bottle tucked inside, and settled into the corner of the sitting room. I laid the carving knife beside me.
I nodded off a couple of times, but each time the cold woke me. It was just as I was coming to the second time that I heard a noise. Someone as opening a window. I cringed back further into the corner, holding my breath, peering into the darkness. The door of the sitting room opened slowly and Santa walked in, heading straight for the tree. As he bend over the presents, I picked up the knife and rose to my feet. I knew I’d have to disable him first before stabbing him, but I knew how to do that, I’d done it often enough to my brother. I moved around behind him and delivered a kick, right between his legs, as high and as hard as I could make it. He cursed in a very unSanta-like manner, but he didn’t fall down like my brother. He spun round and before I could do anything he grabbed the knife from my hand and slashed at me. I staggered back, but the point of the blade caught my hand. I screamed and kicked at his groin, harder this time, and he dropped the knife as he crumpled up.
I was about to pick up the knife when all the lights came on. Mom grabbed hold of me and pulled me back. As she hustled me out of the room, out of the corner of my eye I saw dad hit Santa once, hard, right on the point of his jaw.
Mom had dressed my cut by the time that the police came. Everyone fussed over me and told me how brave I was to tackle the burglar who’d been robbing houses every Christmas Eve for years.
No, no, I insisted. That’s wrong. this is nothing to do with a burglar. You’ve got it wrong. This was Santa. I was lying in wait for him because he never brought children the presents they really wanted. I was going to kill him. I’d planned all this for years.
Mom and dad exchanged an odd look and the police officer led me to the patrol car. I didn’t want to go, but mom gave me a hug and told me it would be for the best. She was crying as I was driven away.
