Murder for Christmas (A concept Story)

Another concept story.

Fair warning, there’s a bit of graphic violence in this one. Enjoy.

MURDER FOR CHRISTMAS

I watch through the window of the booth I sit in as snow gently falls from the night sky, coating the ground with more snow. My gaze wanders to the row of shops spreading across the opposite side of the road. Lights of different colours litter their doors, and I can see that the insides are no different.

A homeless man sits in a corner between two stores, wrapped in a large coat as he plays carols through his saxophone. Some people drop money in his hat as they walk by; others stop to sing along with him, while the rest ignore him. I watch people walk along the sidewalk, mostly in pairs, laughing and smiling. It’s Christmas Eve, and a certain “cheer” is in the air. I hate it.

I hate Christmas. And I hate people who acknowledge the season even more.

Every year, December rolls around, and everyone is suddenly someone else. They hang up a few lights and decorate a few trees, and all the wrongs of the year are forgotten. Everyone expects you to be in a merry mood, sing songs, buy presents, and wear matching outfits with people you hate. 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, my restaurant has also caught the festive bug, and every minute I spend here is more unbearable than the last. A decorated tree is beside the main entrance, and lights are hung on the wall all across the room.

An old jukebox at the back of the room plays classic Christmas tunes, and for the last ten minutes, an old couple has requested the same song. My patience is wearing thin; if I hear Mariah Carey’s voice again, my head will pop.

I realise my nails had dug deep into my palm as I tightened my fist, causing bruises to form. The sight of my blood oddly calms me, so I dig my nails deep into both hands, watching as the crimson-red liquid drops slowly onto the table. The pain is a welcome sensation, and I slowly feel my anxiety begin to melt. That’s when I look across the room and see him again.

He’s why I’ve endured terrible music and the choking smell of chicken for the past two hours. He’s sitting with his wife and their two kids, all laughing and smiling. Currently, he is making funny faces with fries in his nose, and his two boys are laughing their asses off. From where I sit, they look like the model family: beautiful kids, a loving and supporting mother, and a loyal and hardworking father.

Bullshit.

Mike Nichols might be a good father to his sons, Jace and Timothy, but to Serah, his wife, he’s as lousy a husband as they come. At the Moment, he pecks her cheeks as they all laugh at Jace, who has now stuffed his nose with fries, but he has been sleeping with Martha, his office secretary, for the past four months.

I watch in disgust as his wife rubs his shoulder affectionately, and I wonder what could make any man treat a good woman in such a manner, disrespecting her by sneaking around the office with someone twenty years his junior.

Yet tonight, he’d put gifts under the tree and pretend to be the most perfect father in the world. And that’s my issue with this entire season. Humans are wrapped, just like gifts, dressed in guises of good while filthy and evil underneath. Mike was one of such evil, and evil must always face justice.

At least he doesn’t hit her like…

I kill the stray thought immediately because Serah calls for the check, and a waitress arrives at their table. Mike smiles at her as he hands her the money and tells her to keep the change.

He’s so full of shit.

A sharp pain shoots through my right hand, and I realise I am digging into my skin again. I pull a few napkins and clean the blood off my hands and the table.

He can’t see me, but I still duck my head as Mike leads his family out of the diner. As soon as they get in the car and out the driveway, I pull my hoodie down my head and step out of the booth. I toss two bills on the table as a tip for the waitress and leave my cup of coffee 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 bruised palms proves difficult, but I pull out of the driveway and onto the main road. I adopt a pace below the speed limit and cruise steadily through the 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. Either you freeze to death or skid off the road. Death isn’t in my plans tonight. Not mine, anyways.

I turn on the radio, but I immediately regret it. Jingle Bell Rock is playing, and the song transports me back to a distant memory.

I’m five 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. Tell her he’s pretending again. Tell her to remember how she got the scar on her face. Tell her it’s still obvious, even though she tried to cover it up. Dad looks at me, and he smiles. But not the good kind. The kind that reminds me I’m helpless. And weak. I glare at him and squeeze my fists as hard as possible. Then harder. And harder…

I narrowly avoid hitting an oncoming vehicle, and it snaps me back to the present. I hold the steering wheel tightly, and my entire body is rigid. I turn off the radio and steady my breaths, easing them slowly in and out. The anger starts to dissolve, and I relax my grip on the wheel.

Pull yourself together, man.

I see a familiar intersection and drive off the main road onto the muddy path. The road is bumpy and crooked, but I navigate it easily. Eventually, I stop driving and park my car beside a huge tree. Through the side mirror, I see the house in the distance, small yet inviting. I touch my pocket and get out of my car when I confirm it’s there. After stretching a bit, I pull my hoodie on and break into a slight jog.

The moon is entirely out tonight, and so are the stars. Some kid somewhere is probably looking out his window, waiting to see Santa fly across the sky with his reindeer sled. I was once that stupid kid. Before I knew Christmas for the façade it really is. I pass by a wreath hanging on a tree, pull it down, and toss it into the bushes.

I’ve been here before, so I know the terrain fairly well. The Nichols’ residence has no fence, just like many other houses in this area, and Mike’s car is parked out in front of the house. Light is coming from inside the house, and I ensure I’m unseen before entering the property. I walk to the back of the house and the kitchen door is locked. It was locked when I first came a few weeks ago, but I pick it open now as easily as I did then. I open the door slowly, walk into the kitchen, and then close the door behind me.

I can hear the family in the living room, watching a movie. I hear laughter and the excited shrieks of a child. The loud volume of the television masks the heavy sound of my feet as I walk deeper into the kitchen. I inspect the cabinets one by one till I find the utensil suitable for my purpose. I run the tip slightly across my thumb, and it cuts deep immediately. Perfect. I hear a sound coming from the passageway as I close the cabinet. Footsteps. And they are approaching fast.

I crouch on the ground behind the door, blade in hand. I’m about to pounce when he runs into the kitchen. It’s Jace, the younger son. He doesn’t see me, but I watch him climb a stool to reach the sink. Then 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 finger to my lips. I walk slowly towards him; one hand is 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 takes my hand. I allow him to lead me with my left hand, and I keep my right hand behind my back, holding the knife. We walk down the passage, past the stairs and a wall covered with framed photos.

The rest of the family is cuddled on the sofa, and Home Alone plays on the TV. Another buried memory threatens to resurface, but I kill it immediately. I lift Jace onto my arm and watch as they laugh at the movie, oblivious to my presence. Serah eventually calls for Jace, and as she turns her head, she sees me, and her eyes widen in shock.

“Mike!” she shouts as she jumps to her feet. The entire family is alert and stares at me with dumbfounded expressions.

I slowly reveal the hidden knife in my right hand and shake my head at Mike, who was slowly starting to advance at me. He stops, and I see him swallow in fear. Serah holds Timothy tight, but her eyes focus on the child in my arms.

“Don’t hurt us,” Mike pleads. “We have money. Cash, credit cards, everything. Take whatever you want.”

Disgust rises in me.

“Shut up,” I say. “Sit down. All of you.”

He is hesitant at first, but I slowly raise the knife, and his resolve shatters. He sits on the chair, and Serah hesitantly sits beside him. I place Jace on the ground, and he runs into his parents’ arms. I give them a Moment. Serah holds him in her hands, kissing his face. Mike hugs his family and tells them nothing would happen to them. They seem to have forgotten my presence until I walk to the front of the TV and turn it off, making the room silent.

I face the family of four and watch as they clutch to each other for comfort. They all look at me like I’m a monster, unaware that the real monster sits right there in their midst. He looks at me again, and I can see the fear in his eyes.

“Please,” he begs. “Just tell us what you want.”

I gesture to him.

“Stand up.”

I motion for him to come forward. Serah clutches his hand tightly, begging him not to, but he shakes her hand off. He walks and stands in front of me. I’m taller than him, so he raises his head to look at me. He’s scared. I see it 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 her two boys cling dearly to her. They don’t understand I’m doing this for their sake.

I pull the card from my pocket and hand it to him. It’s a Christmas card, the same type Dad would write letters in and keep in our presents during Christmas. His cards were always full of lies, but this one is not. And Mike knows it because as soon as he reads it, he turns to me, his eyes wide in fear or surprise. It’s a bit of both.

“Read it,” I say to him. “Aloud.”

“Please,” he begs.

I lift the knife and place it under his throat.

“Boys, go to your room,” Serah says, removing them both from her arms. “Now!”

“No!” I shout, and they all flinch. “They stay.”

As they sit back, I turn my attention back to Mike, and I press the knife deeper into his throat.

“I said, read.”

“I have sinned,” he starts. 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.

“I am not the man you think I am. I am not worthy of your love. No amount of gifts will change that. I won’t ask for your forgiveness because I was fully aware of my actions. I didn’t make any mistakes, and tonight, I receive my judgement.”

As he says the last words, he entirely breaks down into tears. 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 say, unable to hide the irritation in my voice.

“Please,” Mike begs. “It won’t happen again.”

The pain behind his words triggers another memory, and it overwhelms me before I can stop it.

I’m six, and I’m sitting at the dining table. Dad is reading a newspaper. I think he’s in a good mood. Maybe it’s because Christmas is only a month away. It’s when he’s the nicest to us. Grandma and Grandpa always visit, too. Mom serves us dinner. Dad is angry. He says she put too much salt. He’s yelling. She’s yelling. He’s angry that she’s yelling. She tries to walk away. He pushes her to the ground. She yells at me to go to my room. I don’t. I want to save her. But I can’t. I’m weak. He’s hitting her again. And again. She’s crying. But he doesn’t stop. She tells him it won’t happen again. But he doesn’t stop. He keeps hitting. And hitting. And hitting. Dad runs out of the room. Mom isn’t moving. Why isn’t Mom moving? I’m holding her hand. I’m screaming her name. She’s looking at me. But she doesn’t answer. Why won’t she answer? I scream louder. She still doesn’t answer. I was too weak. I should have saved her. Now she’s gone. She’s left me alone with him. Why did she leave me? Tears pour down my face. Then more tears. Then more…

“Please, don’t hurt me.”

The words break me out of my reverie, and I see him in front of me. But I don’t see him; I see my Dad.

“Shut up!” I yell. The rage has overwhelmed 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.

“Don’t kill him!” Serah screams. “Please. For the sake of my boys, please.”

She’s crying profusely. I look at her, and I don’t understand. She still loves him. Why? She should be happy. He’s not good for her. He’s evil. And 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 save his sons before they become monsters like him. And to deliver justice.

I bring the knife down in one quick motion, and it goes through his neck and stays there. He’s choking as blood gushes out his throat and his nose and his mouth. He makes a disturbing gargling sound as he tries to remove the knife from his neck, but he can’t. So I help him. I pull the knife out and stab him in his chest. Again. And again. And again. Just like he did to Mom.

Someone is screaming, loud and urgent. I think it’s me crying out for 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 strike me again with something, but I react fast and catch her hand. Then I brush her off me, and she falls to the ground, bumping into the sofa. Her boys run to help her up.

“He doesn’t love you, Mom! Leave him!” I scream at her. I’m frustrated. Why doesn’t she understand?

I climb to my feet. My hands are wrapped in a glove, but they’re bloody. I turn to look at Dad, but he’s not there. Mike Nichols’ lifeless body is. I walk over to him and pull the blade from his chest. His Christmas card is beside him, so I pick it up and place it on his chest. I turn to Mom, but she’s not there. Serah is. She’s shielding her two boys behind her. Like I am a monster. Like I would hurt innocent people. Like I was him.

“He’ll never hurt you again,” I say to her.

Then I turn back the passageway into the kitchen and out of the house. I break into a sprint back towards my car. No neighbors are nearby, but I can’t take the chance that someone heard all the screaming. As I run, adrenaline fills me, and I am alive. Mike Nichols got his justice — the justice he deserved. The justice my father avoided when he killed himself in that cell.

I get to my car, unlock the door, and enter it. I take a deep breath and bring the vehicle to life. I will go home, clean myself up and rest. My journey is far from over. At the start of the month, I had seven cards. After tonight, I have three left. Each is for a man who has sinned and won’t escape justice.

They will beg for mercy as she did. But they will receive none. I will watch them bleed to death, and their families will thank me for saving them. And I won’t be weak again. The thought makes me smile, and I feel a burst of energy within me. I think I’m even having an erection. An odd thought crosses my mind, so I say it aloud.

“Merry Christmas.”

And do have a Merry Christmas❤

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