Oh Christmas Tree

Santa isn't real. Not that I ever believed in him.

For some kids, the magic ends at a young age. Others, the rich kind, with six different Christmas trees, and a second vacation home up in Aspen or some other ridiculous tourist destination, I've seen go as far as eleven years into the con.

I sat there, glaring at the small artificial fir tree, decorated from top to bottom in frosted glass ornaments and red plaid ribbons. The three-foot tree sat in the corner of the Sheffield's downstairs bathroom. Santa's smug cherub face pointed skyward atop the tree, sprinkled with bright red glitter along his nose and cheeks. He was smiling back at me while I took a shit. I simultaneously marveled at the frivolity of it all. The selection of toilet bowl spritzers next to a Santa wax warmer making the bathroom smell like gingerbread. Nothing like the smell of cookies next to a toilet to get your appetite going.

A bathroom with it's own goddamn Christmas tree. Well, one of the bathrooms. Mrs. Sheffield was keen on telling every guest who so much as breathed in the direction of her peacocked trees that the ornaments were hand blown glass ornaments from some place in Italy I don't care to remember.

I pulled off a few sheets of the plush toilet paper, rolling my eyes at how soft it was. A light rap at the door rang out along with the voice on the other side.

"Kate, did you fall in?" It mocked, with a mild slur.

"Christ, have you been standing next to the door the entire time!? I'll be out in a minute!"

"I need to go!"

"There's more than one bathroom, Mark! At least 4! Go piss in one of those!" I yelled, knocking my head back in exasperation.

"This is the Santa bathroom Kate, I gotta check it off my list twice." He laughed as a sliding noise sounded from the other side of the door. The slur of the 'S' of Santa sounding more like the hiss of a Snake.

I groaned, pulling my pants back up, flushing away what I knew would linger in this holiday hellscape.

"You're an idiot." I growled, rushing over to the sink. The foaming hand soap glittering out onto my skin with the sickeningly sweet scent of 'Sugar Plum Fairy'. The cacophony of aromas turned my stomach. I could feel Mrs. Sheffield's Pecan Carmel Brie and stone ground wheat crackers churning in place. Any moment longer in this Santa encrusted throne room, and I'd need to use the bathroom again for an entirely different reason.

I wrenched the door open, to find Mark leaning heavily against the wall. His oversized worn red sweater fit loosely around his gangly frame. A Christmas scarecrow, tall and thin with a mop of blonde hair. His eyes flickered heavily under the cross-fade of some local IPA brew and Delta 8 as he grinned down at me. Judging by the angle of his beer beginning to polish the floor, he had clearly headed beyond his threshold.

"Jesus Mark." I coughed out, wrinkling my nose in disgust. "I'm pretty sure if you burped right now you'd get me drunk."

He looked down at me swaying forward to take another long swig from the amber bottle. "Just wait." He laughed, a half burp with foam running down the corner of his mouth.

"You're disgusting." I gagged, covering my mouth as if it would protect me.

"You're disgusting." He mocked back in a high pitched whine. Drunk Mark is a handful. If our father was drunk too, it was about to be a rough night. Seeing as the Sheffield's were prone to investing in expensive things, I was sure he was first in line to sample their pompously aged liquor.

"Where's dad?" I demanded, pushing past him into the hallway. Mark shrugged, stumbling into the bathroom, "Been busy, you know." closing the door behind him a bit too loudly. I wasn't sure if he meant himself, but didn't pay his comment any mind. He'd been less than helpful on all fronts. Regardless, I followed the sound of laughter too loud to be sober.

"Kate! Well, don't you look lovely, growing up to be quite the young woman. I almost missed you."

It took everything in me not to roll my eyes at the fake pleasantries. Mrs. Sheffield's voice was laced with the kind of phoniness people used in their answering machine recordings.

I turned, forcing a tight lipped smile as she flashed her perfect teeth back at me. Mrs. Sheffield was tall, slender, and blonde. A irritatingly gorgeous trifecta of rich cliché all bundled up in an crimson turtle neck sweater dress. Her daughter, Kayla-Ann, inherited her good looks to no surprise, and all the popularity that comes with having money. Mark was keen on becoming friends with her son, which naturally meant she knew my name, if nothing else.

"What a lovely ugly sweater you chose Kate. You have a real chance at winning this year's ugliest sweater!" She clapped.

I kept hold of my tight-lipped smile, looking down at the second hand thrift store sweater I picked up last minute. It was a faded green with cracks carved throughout the old 1990s design of bow legged elves dancing around a snowman.

"Put a lot of thought into it." I lied, clearing my throat as the discomfort settled in. I began chewing on the inside of my cheek as she eyed the rest of my worn-out wardrobe, sipping from her gilded glass rimmed with sparkling red sugar. She tossed the poof ball of her Santa hat to the side as cranberries bobbed up and down in the Champagne glass. "Of course you did, bless your heart. Kayla-Ann told me all about where you live — over on the rural West side by the old schoolhouse that burnt down. It must be so hard to make friends out there, with hardly no one around. I just want you to know — I'm in a women's group at church. We pray for everyone who lives over there every Sunday."

I could feel the gravity of her condescension begin to crush me. I ached for oblivion, biting hard into the bottom of my lip. I could feel my eyes start to unfocus, tuning her out to the sound of 'Santa Baby' playing from the living room.

It didn't take long. I could hear the argument before I saw it. A chorus of shouts over Eartha Kitt's '… fill my stocking with a duplex and checks'. I could see plenty of people shifting away quietly, clearly uncomfortable with where the conversation was going. I pushed my way through the sea of ugly holiday sweaters just as he stood up, face turning purple.

Mark inherited my father's gangly stature. Dark hair, matted with more streaks of grey than he'd like to admit. His skin worn with the strain of blue collar struggles and the wear and tear of all the alcohol that would soothe bottom rung circumstance. Although no Christmas sweater was to be found, his worn and faded plaid button-up was just as hideous and out of date as the rest of his ensemble. No one would have thought he was off-theme unless I spoke up and told them so.

It was strange seeing him like this. Part of me wanted to crawl up into a corner and disappear from existence, while the other part of me would have loved to smash every overpriced knickknack into the polished floors. I understood him and yet couldn't have been further from him.

"You can tell this tree is a fake from a mile away! In my day we'd cut down the biggest damn tree in the forest. This tree looks like shit! Nothing but fake shit!"

The Christmas lights strangling the fake fir cast an unsettling red light district glow of green and red upon his sweaty skin. He belched under his breath.

I could see Mrs. Sheffield's face pale. The vibrant red of her lipstick growing redder from the contrast of her skin with each passing second. Part of me relished in ruining her perfect party. The other part tried to bury itself in hopes no one would notice any relation.

You didn't need 20/20 vision to see my father swaying next to the 10 foot artificial tree. His hand batting at the imported baubles like flies at a summer barbecue. His drink bobbed and tipped as he focused all the hate he could muster on the fake green fir.

With one fell swoop a hand-blown stocking ornament went flying, smashing into the floor, sending a cascade of paper thin glass across the polished tile.

A hush fell over the party as Mr. Sheffield pushed his way through to my father.

"I think you've had enough to drink." He said with such calm finality that it pushed my back up against the wall in fear.

"Don't even know my fucking name." He furiously mumbled, taking another swig from his crystal ornament. "And who the fuck puts a cocktail inside a Christmas ornament?" He burped out, glaring at the Pinterest inspired holiday vessel.

My father swayed toward Mr. Sheffield, the veins in his forehead pulsing. "You know—I know your name, Paul. You and your wife with— fake trees and overpriced garbage." He spat, grasping onto the fireplace mantle, knocking off a golden reindeer stocking holder as he tried to steady himself.

I could feel the blood rush into my ears, caught in the headlights, completely mortified. Mr. Sheffield moved to place a hand on my father's shoulder, reaching out to help him away from the tree. "Fuckin' think youre better than me." He drooled out, slapping away his arm.

He glared at the onlookers and their gaping mouths, silent and kept in line. Making sure to keep it that way, if they wanted the free drinks to keep flowing.

"Let's just settle down, maybe talk about this outside." Mr. Sheffield said, his voice calm and even, arms in front of him as if to persuade a grizzly back into it's cage.

My father pushed past him sluggishly, his hands slipping as he struggled to balance. The crowd had placed themselves just far enough away to avoid any flying holiday debris, but close enough to satiate their gossiping appetites.

"I'm done with you rich pricks," he slurred, jamming his fist into his back pocket, fishing out keys while heading for me, and the door.

His eyes locked onto my form, slightly glazed over. "Kate. Mark. Get in the fucking car. Now!"

I froze, feeling the weight of every eye in the room on me. There was no escape. The Sheffield’s festive nightmare had morphed into my own personal hell.

"Kate, come on." His voice was a mix of a whisper and a plea, barely audible over the soft hum of holiday music now returning to fill the tense air.

Reluctantly, I started moving towards him, each step feeling heavier than the last. Mark stumbled out of the bathroom, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes widening as he took in the scene.

"Dad, what the hell?" Mark muttered, but there was an edge of fear in his voice, a recognition of the point of no return we had reached.

I glanced back at the Sheffields, their faces a mixture of shock, disdain, and pity. It stung, but what stung more was the realization that we were exactly what they thought we were - a spectacle, a cautionary tale of what lay beyond their gilded walls.

Outside, the cold night air hit me like a slap to the face. The world seemed surreal, the twinkling Christmas lights of the neighborhood houses mocking in their cheerfulness. My father fumbled with his keys, his anger simmering into a kind of desperate sadness.

"Get in the car," he repeated, his voice now defeated.

We obeyed silently, the car’s engine roaring to life, breaking the stillness of the night.

***

The drive back home was filled with near vomit induced burps and incoherent babblings. Although the mumbles were sharp and aggressive enough that it wasn't hard to guess where my father was channeling the remainder of his booze fueled fury. Mark on the other hand passed out within 5 minutes of being sandwiched between my father and I.

I'd grown used to driving the old beat up 1990 Ford F150. Even in its prime I'm sure it was just as hideous. At some point it may have been white or maybe even some other color with how much paint had chipped away. I wasn't sure. I'd always remembered it in varying shades of brown or red when dad and the 'boys' would go mudding. Which was just a redneck way of saying he was going to drink and drive in the mud with a bunch of assholes until sundown.

The thing is, while most rich kids like Kayla-Ann not only get a new car with a learners permit at 16, my broke ass had been driving since I was 11. The first time was a nice pleasant drive to the liquor store. Nothing quite like learning how to drive and stick shift at the same time while being instructed by your hungover old man. In a way, it might be the only somewhat responsible thing my father's ever done. The saddest part was how excited I was. So desperate for him to be proud of me and aching for his attention. That would wear off about a year later when I received 6 academic achievement awards. He never showed up to no surprise and was upset when I came home late after the awards ceremony. Tossing my awards aside, growling about how the closest liquor store was going to close soon.

I turned down our unpaved driveway, bouncing along. The truck shrieking as the rusted metal ground against itself. Leaving the headlights on, I helped my brother and father up the porch steps, hoping the added light would help them make it to the door. With a grunt, Dad stumbled through the front door, nearly tripping over his own feet. Mark, mumbling incoherently, practically melted onto the stained couch, his snores filling the silence within seconds. I sighed, the exhaustion of the night finally catching up to me.

"Some Christmas party, huh?" I muttered to no one in particular, kicking off my worn-out boots.

Dad, leaning heavily against the wall, let out a low growl. "Those rich bastards..." he slurred, his words trailing off.

I looked around our small living room, its walls adorned with faded wallpaper and mismatched furniture. Only days until Christmas and the house looked like it always did year round- filled all the way up to the rusty tin roof with disappointment, neglect, and 'Kate grab me a beer from the fridge.'

I kicked a dirty paper plate to the side letting out a heavy sigh. A pang of longing hit me as I noticed the empty corner where our Christmas tree usually stood when mom was still here.

"Another year, no tree." I whispered, shaking my head quietly.

Dad's head snapped up, his eyes narrowing. "What'd you say?" he growled, his voice dangerously low.

I sucked in a breath, clearing my throat as my mouth tripped over my words.

"I just— we don't have a tree," I repeated, my voice barely above a whisper. "It's not a big deal. Just — thinking…" I trailed off as his hands cracked at the strain of balling them into fists.

"Bet you wish you were with those Sheffields, don't you?" he sneered, taking a menacing step towards me, swaying. "With their fancy ornaments and their fake smiles." His voice cracked slightly, as if he was some teenager being dumped.

I could smell the alcohol on his breath, my eyes beginning to water from its pungency.

I shook my head, backing away. "No," I said, my voice beginning to tremble. "I just — "

I stopped myself, the words caught in my throat.

"Go on," he urged, his eyes burning into mine. "Say it. Say what you really think."

I bit my lip hard as my heart began to pound in my ears, the taste of blood filling my mouth, wishing to be anywhere but here in this moment. "Nothing— It doesn't matter," I mumbled, looking away.

"No, it matters," he insisted. "Say it. Say you wish you had a father who wasn't a screw-up. Say you wish your mother was here instead of me. Say the fucking words Kate! SAY THEM!"

The air was stale between us, like the silence within a cave shut off from the outside world. I felt my heart surge up into my throat as those last few words from his voice rang in my ears. I couldn't bring myself to say the words, but he didn't need me to. He knew. He had always known.

"You want a tree so bad?" he roared, his voice echoing through the house as he flipped the coffee table. A mixture of old magazines and empty beer cans went flying as I stumbled back cursing.

Mark, stirred furiously on the couch shoving one of the stained pillows over his head. His words a mixture of muffled: "Can you two please shut up and take it outside! My head is pounding!"

My father's teeth grit together. I could see his chest heaving as he threw his hands outward.

"Fine! You want a goddamn tree, you'll get a tree!"

He stumbled towards the door, throwing it open with a bang, nearly taking the cheap screen off it's hinges. I felt my anxiety strangling out my more reasonable emotions and fueling my need to please the raging inferno heading out the front door.

"Wait!" I yelled, running after him. My toe stubbed the side of the overturned table. Pain shot up into my bones as I nearly toppled over in agony.

I cursed in pain and frustration as I hobbled toward the door.

He was already down the porch steps, rounding the side of the house, his unsteady legs barely holding him up. I watched in shock as he grabbed the rusty axe leaning against our sad dilapidated tool shed.

"What the hell are you doing!? Stop!" I shrieked, my voice hoarse, hobbling through the snow. "Come back inside!". My feet began to burn from the wet freezing temperatures seeping through to my skin.

But he didn't listen. He disappeared into the darkness, swallowed up by the thick pine trees, the sound of his heavy footsteps fading into the night.

I stopped short, yelling and screaming at the edge of the woods in a primal rage I never knew I had. I screamed until my voice went hoarse and my lungs ached. I screamed until I realized I couldn't anymore, and all that was left was hoarse wheezing with little comfort to the cold wetness on my face. I felt my breath come in surging waves as if I'd ran a marathon. I glared out at that darkness, swallowing each and every word and curse I'd thrown at it.

"I hope you never come back." I gritted under my breath holding my arms against my shaking body.

I walked back to the porch steps, my teeth beginning to chatter. Looking back outward into the darkness, the tall dense trees loomed all around me like ancient judges silently weighing what had just unfolded.

***

Hours passed. Mark eventually stirred, groaning as he sat up on the couch, his eyes bleary. Without a word, he reached under the coffee table and pulled out the battered hookah he insisted on smoking. It clanged awkwardly against an empty bottle of something cheap.

I watched, my lip curling. The hookah, with its chipped glass base and tarnished metal stem, always reminded me of those antique glass fire extinguishers—comically out of place, barely functional, and just collecting dust. He hadn't even started smoking the thing until last year, when he decided vaping with one of those overpriced electric Juul things was “too mainstream,” as if he could afford that habit anyway.

"Why didn't you stop him, Kate?" he hissed through the haze of his newfound aesthetic, his voice laced with frustration as he fumbled with the charcoal. "You know how he gets when he's drunk."

I paced back and forth, nerves frayed. "He had an axe, Mark," I growled, my voice sharp with residual anger. "What was I supposed to do? Ask him nicely to hand it over?"

Mark shrugged, sinking back into the couch, a plume of weak smoke drifting lazily from his lips. "You could have called the cops," he mumbled.

"And tell them what?" I snapped. "That my drunk father went into the woods with an axe because he wants a Christmas tree?"

As if on cue, a loud scraping sound echoed from outside, followed by a series of thuds. Mark bolted upright, nearly tipping over the hookah as he rushed to pull down the dusty, warped window blinds.

"What the actual fuck?"

I rushed to the window, my heart pounding. In the moonlight, I could see a shadowy figure dragging something across the lawn. As it got closer, the details became clearer: it was my father, his clothes torn and dirty, hauling a massive tree trunk behind him.

"What the actual fuck!?" Mark repeated. "Put the tree down, your leg is bleeding!" he yelled through the window as if my father could hear him.

I could see the dark stain on Dad's pants, the blood seeping through the fabric.

"Fucking idiot — he's cut his leg open!" I yelled, running toward the laundry room.

I fumbled through the dirty laundry basket, grabbing the cleanest ones I could find. By the time I returned to the living room, Dad was already halfway up the porch steps, his face contorted with effort as he dragged the tree behind him.

Mark tried to intervene, but Dad pushed past him, his eyes fixed on the empty corner of the living room. He hauled the tree inside, its gnarled branches scraping against the walls and leaving trails of dirt and bark.

The tree was a monstrosity. It was completely bare of needles, its bark dark and rough, like the skin of a long-dead creature. The branches, twisted and gnarled, seemed to reach out like skeletal arms. A chill ran down my spine as I watched Dad prop it up in the corner, his breathing ragged and uneven.

I fumbled with the worn towels.

"What the hell happened!? Your bleeding —"

"Get your mother's ornaments," he commanded, his voice barely a whisper.

Mark and I exchanged a bewildered look. Our mother's ornaments? They had been packed away years ago, hidden in the depths of the linen closet, a painful reminder of a happier time.

"What— You are bleeding everywhere! Put the tree down and sit so I —"

"GET THE FUCKING ORNAMENTS!" He roared.

We stood there breathing heavily. I was too terrified to move. Like a deer caught in the headlights. His eyes were as dark as the forest I'd screamed into and when he looked at us. It felt as though the darkness in every corner of the room had eyes of their own and I had the sudden urge to turn on every light I could find.

Mark spoke up as I clasped the towels close to my chest. My knuckles white.

"Dad, her ornaments..." he began, but he cut him off with a wave of his hand.

"Just get them," he repeated, his eyes slowly moving back to the tree, if you could call it that.

I watched as my father ran his trembling fingers along the tree's twisted branches, a strange look of reverence on his face. The room seemed to grow colder, the air thick and unsettling. The dead twisted branches reaching outward to consume any shred of light and life near it.

Mark slowly pried the towels from my grip. Rapidly patting my arm, pulling my back to this moment. I blinked a few times, clearing my throat before trudging toward the linen closet, my footsteps echoing in the otherwise silent house. I had to dig past old sweaters and jeans my father and brother were too lazy to donate or put into the trash. My hand brushed against the cool, smooth surface of an old family photo, nestled amongst the clutter. The wooden frame, shaped like a Christmas bell, felt familiar under my fingertips. In the photograph, we were all smiling – a younger, happier version of ourselves. I was five, my brother a gangly seven-year-old, and our parents... they looked so in love.

The image twisted in my stomach, a sour reminder of how much had changed. The thought of hanging these ornaments, imbued with memories of a life that felt like a distant dream, on this grotesque tree filled me with a sense of dread.

I dug deeper into the closet, my eyes darting over my shoulder every few seconds. The house creaked and groaned around me, and I couldn't shake the feeling that I was being watched. Each window felt like a massive eye watching my every move. But whenever I turned around, there was only my father, sitting in his armchair, his gaze fixed on the tree with an unnerving intensity. Mark knelt beside him, tending to the gash on his leg, his face laced with repulsion. His thoughts were loud, but my father didn't seem to notice him at all.

Finally, my fingers brushed against the cardboard box, its edges worn and soft from years of storage. I pulled it out, dusting off a layer of cobwebs, and carried it over to the living room.

As I set the box down, my father finally looked up at me, his eyes gleaming in the dim light. "Isn't it beautiful?" he asked, his voice soft and almost reverent. "The moment I saw it, I knew I had to have it." I felt my brow furrow and stood, looking quietly at him and the tree. My thoughts raced a million miles an hour. Confused by the tone of his voice and the complete lack of self in his eyes. How much did he have to drink at the Sheffield's party? I could feel my forehead begin to ache as I examined each minute detail of his face for an answer. Dirt in the creases of his eyes and smudged on his cheek. Scratches like fingernails across his brow and jawline. Not a single flicker of emotion in his expression. There was a hollowness I couldn't quite place and the more my mind lingered on it, the more I wanted to be as far away from this house as possible.

He gestured towards the tree, his gaze lingering on its gnarled branches. "Don't you think it's beautiful, Kate?"

My skin crawled. The tree was anything but beautiful. It was a twisted, gnarled monstrosity that seemed to suck the warmth from the room. Small white insects wriggled out of some of the holes near the trunk, disappearing into the worn carpet. I wanted to scream, to tell him that I hated it, that I wished it had never been dragged into our home. But the memory of his violent outburst in the woods was fresh in my mind. I couldn't risk another explosion. My feelings be damned.

"It's... it's great, Dad," I managed, forcing a weak smile.

Mark shot me a disgusted look, his mouth opening to protest. I quickly cut him off with a sharp glance.

"We both love it, Dad," I said, my voice tight. "It's the best tree we've ever had."

I began to move to the kitchen. My eyes set on the cabinet filled with a jumble of pain relievers and other various over the counter meds.

"Let me get you a beer. Take the edge off. I'm sure that hurts." I forced a wry laugh.

Dad's eyes returned to the tree, his voice cold and flat. "Decorate it."

I scurried into the kitchen, grabbing an ice cold beer. The slick coldness of the can made the hairs raise on my neck. I fumbled quietly with the cabinet and I could feel a lump form in my chest when I found the empty melatonin container.

"Kate. I said to decorate the tree."

I jumped back against the counter, dropping the empty melatonin bottle. It's hollow body clacked against the peeling vinyl, slowly rolling into a corner. He stood in the opening leading back to the living room, staring down at me. As still as a statue. I sucked in a breath, bracing myself for a verbal beating.

"It was — I thought you might." I fumbled with my words, picking up the empty bottle and throwing it in the trash avoiding eye contact.

Silence, he remained standing their staring at me. Mark looking on from the living room.

"I won't ask again." He said with mechanical calm, walking past the newly opened can of beer to sit back in his chair next to the tree.

I couldn't take my eyes off the beer sitting on the counter, the condensation running like tears down onto the dirty kitchen counter. Something was wrong and a new terror began to burn from within me.

I grabbed the beer, walking back into the living room, placing it on the stand next to my father. His eyes never once leaving the tree, completely oblivious to the ice cold beverage.

He captivated me in the same way people can't look away from a deadly car wreck. Onlookers that slow down to catch a glimpse of what's under the white sheets. I couldn't look away.

For one brief second his eyes shot to the dusty box and back up at me. I fell into line immediately, a dog terrified of it's master.

I hesitated, exchanging a nervous glance with Mark. "Aren't you going to help?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

Mark slowly opened the box, his eyes more on the beer can and just as aware as I was.

"I want to watch," my father commanded. The towels around his leg beginning to change in color.

The tension in the room thickened, and I could feel Mark's unease mirroring my own.

"Now," we were commanded, his voice growing louder and more threatening.

I exchanged a nervous glance with Mark, then reached for the box of ornaments. The unsettling feeling in the pit of my stomach grew with each fragile bulb I placed on the tree. The branches were surprisingly brittle, their sharp edges scratching against my skin. A sharp pain shot through my palm as a particularly gnarled branch tore a gash in my skin.

"You okay?" Mark whispered.

We were like children again. Whispering to one another about a sweet snuck out of the pantry or a threat not to tell mom about the fireworks one of us bought.

"I'm fine," I mumbled, wiping my hand on my sweater. A smear of blood stained the faded fabric, transforming the dancing elves into macabre figures. Dad remained unmoved, his gaze fixed on the tree as if nothing had happened.

The tension mounted with each ornament we placed. The tree seemed to resist our efforts, its branches snapping and cracking with alarming ease. Suddenly, a loud crack echoed through the room as Mark accidentally broke off one of the larger branches.

In a flash, Dad was on his feet, his hand closing around Mark's neck. Slamming him against the wall with a guttural roar, his face contorted with rage.

"You little shit! — You fucking little piece of shit!" He roared. The wall caved in slightly as he slammed him once more against it.

Mark gasped for air, his eyes wild with terror as he clawed desperately at the dirt caked fingers around his neck.

"What the fuck! Let him go!" I screamed, trying to pry Dad's fingers away. "What the hell are you doing!?"

Dad's eyes flickered to mine, then back to Mark. There was an hollow emptiness there I'd never seen before. With a suddenness that made my heart lurch, he released his grip, letting Mark crumple to the floor.

"Don't ever touch her again," his voice barely above a whisper as he calmly returned to his chair, his gaze once again fixed on the tree as if nothing had happened.

I rushed to Mark's side, my heart pounding in my chest. "Jesus Mark! Are you okay?" I asked, my voice trembling offering to help him up.

Mark pushed me away, his eyes filled with fury. "I'm done," he said, his voice thick with rage. "I'm done with this fucked up family."

He glared at Dad, who was once again lost in his trance-like admiration of the tree. "Fuck this," Mark spat. "Fuck this tree, and fuck you."

He grabbed his jacket, snatched Dad's wallet and the car keys from the table.

"Wait!" I sobbed, lunging for the keys. "Stop! Give me the car keys!" I pleaded, my voice cracking. I looked desperately to my father, "Help me stop him!" I screamed, but my words bounced off his vacant stare, miles away.

I clawed at Mark's jacket as he pushed past me, his face a mask of cold fury.

"Mark, please!" I begged, clinging to him. "Take me with you!"

He pried my fingers from his arm, his voice sharp with desperation. "I can't, Kate," he choked out. "I can't take care of you too. I'm tired of taking care of everyone else."

"I don't care!" I cried, my voice raw with desperation. "I can't stay here alone with him!"

"You're stronger than you think," he said, his eyes filled with a pain I had never seen before. "You'll get through this. I have to do this for me."

He pushed me away gently, then turned and fled, slamming the door behind him.

I stumbled down the porch steps after him, my legs threatening to give way beneath me. "Please!" I screamed, my voice echoing in the night as I chased after the receding taillights. "Don't leave me!" I screamed over and over again, collapsing onto my knees.

But it was too late. The truck disappeared around the corner, swallowed by that damned darkness.

The sound of the engine faded, leaving an eerie silence pierced only by my ragged breathing and the creaking of the floorboards from within the trailer as the man inside our home shifted in his chair. The monstrous tree loomed over me, a twisted monument to our shattered family. A wave of panic surged through my body, my chest tightening as I struggled to breathe. The loneliness of the empty house pressed in, suffocating.

Alone.

I staggered, with what little remained in me toward the door before my knees buckled, and I collapsed onto the porch steps, sobs wracking my body. The world spun as dizziness washed over me. I gasped for air, lungs burning with each shallow breath. Fear, raw and primal, surged through me. I was trapped in this house with a man who was no longer my father, a stranger with a vacant stare and an psychotic obsession. As mythical and ridiculous as I find Santa, god had always been just as fantastical. I began to question everything I'd ever known. Moreso, the things I didn't. Something was wrong. Something I didn't understand and that was even more terrifying.

Scrambling to my feet, I stumbled back into the house, slamming the door behind me. I raced to my room, heart pounding in my chest, and locked the door behind me. Back pressed against the wall, I slid down to the floor, my body trembling uncontrollably. Tears streamed down my face as I curled into a ball, desperately trying to block out the terrifying reality that was now my life.

***

I don’t know how long I sat there, knees hugged tight to my chest, staring down the flimsy door between me and the living room. Every sound—the whistling wind, the groaning metal panels on the trailer skirting—set off sharp inhales and twitching nerves. The snow was falling faster now, blanketing the world in a deepening quiet. He just drank too much. That’s all. Alcohol does strange things to people, and Mark will be back in the morning. He’s just upset. Everything will be fine.

I winced as a fresh sting shot through my hand, realizing I had gnawed my fingernails down to the stumps. Blood welled at the corner of my thumb, the metallic taste still clinging to my lips.

I was falling apart.

Then a sound came from the living room—low, almost melodic. I froze, straining to listen as my pulse quickened again. It was… humming? My brow furrowed. Familiar, but distant, like a song I should know but couldn’t place. Leaning forward, I pressed my ear against the rough, peeling paint of the door. The same verse, over and over.

I couldn’t stand it. The nauseating repetition. I needed it to stop.

I scrambled to my feet, bloodied fingers clawing at the rusted latch on the window, but it wouldn’t budge. I collapsed back onto the bed, my fingers shoved into my ears, desperate to drown out the sound. The world blurred into a haze of pressure, the vibration of the humming reverberating in my skull until—finally—it stopped.

I pulled my fingers from my ears, trembling. Silence. For a moment, I sat frozen, not daring to move. Then I crept to the door, hand trembling as I unlocked the latch and nudged it open.

Behind him, I caught sight of Mark's hookah. The embers at the top still glowed faintly, casting a dull, orange light across the glass table. The charcoal was almost gone, but the faint glow persisted. It seemed exhausted, its embers flickering, barely clinging to life.

But the room was far from lifeless. My father’s voice broke through the silence.

"Oh Christmas tree, oh Christmas tree, how lovely are thy branches..."

The words dripped from his lips in a haunting, ethereal melody. I stood paralyzed as he reached for an ornament. With a sickening crunch, he bit into the delicate glass, shards splintering to the floor. Blood trickled from his mouth, mixing with the glitter that dusted Santa’s cheerful face.

I swallowed the rising bile in my throat, forcing myself to look past him—to the tree.

And that’s when I saw it.

A figure, shrouded in shadow, slithered from the gnarled branches. Its skin was textured like bark, its limbs twisted and sinewy, blending seamlessly with the tree. It beckoned to my father, moving with an eerie grace, like a puppet pulled by invisible strings.

My father turned towards the figure, his face alight with a rapturous smile. "Beautiful," he whispered, his voice filled with adoration. "So beautiful."

I stumbled backward, my hand reaching for the door. I had to get out of there, away from this madness. But my feet refused to move, rooted to the spot by a terror that was both paralyzing and exhilarating.

The figure within the tree stretched out a gnarled hand, its fingers brushing against my father's cheek. A low, guttural sound, like the rustling of leaves in a winter storm, filled the room.

A scream lodged in my throat, but no sound escaped my lips. I was frozen, paralyzed by the sheer horror of it all. The house creaked and groaned around me, the wind howling outside as if the very world was recoiling from the abomination that had taken root in our living room.

My father, oblivious to my presence, continued his macabre serenade. "Oh Christmas tree, oh Christmas tree..."

The creature emerged fully from the tree, its form now a haunting blend of feminine beauty and twisted, arboreal horror. Splintered teeth, sharp as daggers, glinted in the moonlight as a smile spread across its bark-like face. The Christmas ornaments, haphazardly placed earlier, now hung from its limbs like grotesque trophies. A single strand of lights, some bulbs burnt out, cast an eerie glow on the scene, illuminating the serene expression on my father's face.

It reached out, its gnarled fingers caressing my father's cheek with an almost lover-like tenderness. He leaned into the touch, his eyes half-closed, a blissful smile playing on his lips. The creature's touch seemed to invigorate him, a flush of color returning to his pale cheeks. He seemed utterly at peace, lost in a trance of contentment.

Then, with a delicate gesture, it plucked another bauble from its branches, offering it to my father like a forbidden fruit. He accepted it without hesitation, his eyes still glazed over, and took another bite. The sickening crunch of glass echoed through the room, mingling with the soft moan that escaped his lips.

I watched in horror as the creature drank from the fresh wound, her bark-like skin darkening with his blood. The tree behind them seemed to breathe, its branches turning from blackened husks to vibrant brown, new needles unfurling like grotesque fingers reaching for the light.

At first, my father remained lost in his blissful trance, his body relaxing against the creature's twisted form. But as the life drained from him, a flicker of realization crossed his eyes. His fingers twitched, weakly clawing at the creature's bark-like skin, trying to pull away. Its grip tightened, branches entwining around him in a lover’s death grip.

The creature’s smile widened, jagged teeth glinting in the dim light, her empty eyes filled with something cold, almost amused. My father’s struggles weakened as his body sagged against the creature. His eyes—once full of confusion, terror—now dulled as life slipped away.

The once monstrous tree behind them stood taller now, vibrant, its branches laden with fresh pine needles, as if each stolen heartbeat made it stronger. It was a grotesque symbol of the creature's rebirth, pulsing with stolen vitality.

I wanted to look away, but I couldn't. The scene was both horrifying and mesmerizing, a grotesque ballet of life and death playing out before my eyes. My father's body went limp, his lifeless eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. The creature released him, his body crumpling to the floor with a sickening thud.

The creature’s head swiveled unnaturally, her gaze snapping to mine. Her lips peeled back in that splintered grin, and a guttural growl erupted from her throat, like the sound of wood splitting under intense pressure. It reverberated in my chest, promising unimaginable pain.

I had seconds.

My eyes darted to the table. The hookah. The embers still glowed faintly at the top, a dull orange, barely alive but hot enough. I didn’t think—I just reacted. Lunging for it, I knocked the entire hookah off the table, sending it crashing to the floor. The glowing coals scattered across the rug, and the fabric immediately caught fire.

For a brief moment, there was hope. The flames began to lick up the dry curtains, catching the pine needles strewn around the room. The creature let out a shriek, a horrible, primal sound that echoed through the room. Her eyes widened in rage as she sensed the danger to her heart—her tree.

But the fire needed help. It sputtered and flared, fighting to spread. My mind raced—there had to be something more, something to keep it burning, to make sure that damned thing went up in flames.

I bolted for the door, slamming it open as the creature’s howl chased me. The cold air hit me like a slap as I ran outside, the snow crunching under my bare feet. I ignored the sharp sting as the ice bit into my skin, my eyes fixed on the shed at the far end of the yard.

The shed. The lawnmower.

The creature's scream echoed behind me, and I could hear her wooden limbs splintering as she gave chase. My father had never mowed the lawn more than a handful of times, but there had to be gas left in the can. There had to be.

My breath came out in ragged bursts, each step heavier than the last as I raced across the snow-covered yard. The shed loomed in front of me, dark and decrepit. I fumbled with the latch, throwing it open with trembling hands.

I nearly sobbed with relief when I saw the gas can sitting in the corner. My fingers wrapped around the handle as I yanked it off the dusty shelf. It was lighter than I hoped—far too light.

“Please, please, please…” I muttered, my breath coming in sharp gasps, the sound of my own heartbeat pounding in my ears.

I unscrewed the cap and tilted the can. A pitiful splash echoed inside. Barely enough to even cover the bottom. “Shit!”

A furious roar erupted from behind me. I spun around just in time to see the creature charging forward, her twisted limbs contorting with unnatural speed. The moonlight distorted her figure, a nightmarish blend of bark and shadow, her jagged fingers outstretched, ready to tear me apart.

I had seconds, if that. My bare feet slipped in the snow as I bolted for the house, clutching the gas can as if it was the only lifeline I had left. I could hear her behind me—the crunch of snow, the snapping of her wooden limbs as she closed the distance. The air was freezing, every breath burning my lungs, but I couldn't stop.

I was almost at the porch when I felt something latch onto my ankle—a grip like iron, cold and unyielding.

I screamed as I was yanked backward, the gas can flying from my hands as I crashed into the snow. The creature’s twisted hand wrapped around my bare leg, her bark-like fingers digging into my skin like splintered claws. I kicked wildly, trying to break free, but her grip tightened, and with a sickening crack, my ankle twisted unnaturally.

The pain was blinding, a white-hot surge that ripped through my body. I choked on my own breath, my vision swimming, as I struggled to crawl away. The creature's growl rumbled behind me, a guttural sound that rattled in my bones, and I could hear the scrape of her limbs as she dragged herself toward me. I twisted around, blindly kicking with my good leg. My foot connected with her face—hard—and for a moment, she recoiled, a hiss escaping her lips. But she was relentless. Her grip slackened for just a second, but it was all I needed.

I clawed at the frozen ground, forcing myself forward despite the searing pain in my shattered ankle. Each inch felt like agony, but I refused to stop. I had to get back inside. I had to finish this.

The creature lunged again, her fingers catching the edge of my shirt, yanking me backward with brutal strength. I hit the ground hard, gasping for breath, and turned just in time to see her looming over me, her bark-like face inches from mine. Her empty eyes bore into me, her jagged teeth bared in a sickening grin.

I kicked again, aiming for her torso, but she caught my leg midair and twisted. Pain shot through my body, but adrenaline pushed me to keep fighting. I reached for a nearby rock, something, anything I could use, and with a desperate scream, I slammed it into her head.

The creature screeched, the sound splitting the night as her grip faltered. Blood—thick and dark, like sap—oozed from the gash where the rock hit. I scrambled back, dragging myself through the snow, using my hands and one good leg to propel me toward the house.

The porch was only a few feet away. I could already smell the sickening scent of melting carpet as the small rug fire struggled to spread. I had to get the gas. I had to end this.

I reached the gas can, my fingers trembling as I grabbed the handle. But before I could pull myself up, the creature lunged again. Her jagged fingers scraped across my back, tearing into my skin. I screamed, the pain nearly blinding, but I refused to let go of the can.

With a desperate cry, I heaved the gas can toward the porch and threw myself forward. I hit the steps hard, my broken ankle screaming in agony, but I dragged myself up, inch by inch.

The creature was right behind me, her shadow filling the doorway as she crawled toward me, her limbs moving like cracked, brittle wood. Her face contorted with rage, her jagged teeth bared in a horrifying snarl.

I barely managed to pull myself up, gripping the doorframe with white-knuckled hands. The old metal gas can was annoyingly heavy for how little it held, each step a reminder of the cruel weight and the useless slosh of what remained inside. My ankle screamed in agony with every movement, but I forced myself forward, teeth gritted, my breath ragged.

When I reached the tree, I tipped the can with trembling hands, dribbling the last drops of gasoline over the base of the tree near the rug. I watched the trail of flame lap up the dribbled path hungrily. It wasn't much, but it had to be enough.

The creature let out a bloodcurdling shriek, her connection to the tree weakening as the flames surged to life. The fire, ravenous for fuel, eagerly climbed the twisted trunk, catching on the dry branches and crackling pine needles. Thick smoke billowed out, filling the room with the stench of burning wood and something far more ancient.

With a snarl, she crashed through the front door, tearing bits of the door frame off and throwing them across the room at me. I threw myself back, just as the wood smashed into the wall and the fire continued to race up the trunk of her only lifeline. She hobbled through the room past me attempting to put out the flames that consumed her lifeline.

Her skin began to split, cracks spreading across her body like dry earth before a storm. Flames licked up her legs and torso, flickering against her splintering form. She writhed in agony, the fire devouring her, reducing her to a grotesque silhouette of writhing limbs and burning bark.

I collapsed against the wall, gasping for air, my chest heaving. The pain in my ankle throbbed with every pulse of my heart, but I was alive. Barely. The creature’s screams rattled through the walls, primal and wild, shaking the very foundation of the house. But I could see it—she was losing. The flames were too strong, too fast. Her connection to the tree snapped. Her bark-like body twisted, shriveling as the fire hollowed her out. She shrieked one final time, the sound ripping through the air, before her body crumbled into ash, scattered by the roaring flames.

I stared at the tree, now a blackened mass of burnt wood and smoldering embers. It had once stood as a grotesque symbol of something far older and crueler than I could comprehend. Now, it was just… gone. The house—what was left of it—creaked and groaned, the fire spreading, hungry for more.

I forced myself to my feet, hobbling toward the door, every step agony. I didn't look back as I stumbled out into the freezing night. The snow felt like ice against my bare feet, the cold air biting at my skin, but it didn’t matter. Behind me, the house—the whole miserable trailer—was being swallowed by the flames.

I stood there for a moment, watching as everything I’d ever known burned. The creature, my father, the life I’d been trapped in—it was all gone, consumed in the fire’s relentless hunger. And for the first time, I didn’t feel fear or loss.

I felt free.

The flames roared higher, illuminating the night sky, casting long shadows across the snow. Everything I had was gone… but I was still standing. I had survived. And fuck it all—maybe that was enough. Maybe it was more than I ever thought I’d get.

I let out a breath, the cold air burning my lungs. The fire had taken everything, but it couldn’t take me. Not tonight.

With a final, weary glance at the inferno that had once been my home, I staggered forward, my body finally giving out. The snow was cold, so cold, but it felt almost comforting as I collapsed into it.

As the darkness closed in, a single thought cut through the haze: Let it all burn.

And then the world went black, the fire roaring behind me as I surrendered to the cold.

***

"Dinner in your room today, Miss Kate." The nurse’s voice is flat, mechanical, as she places the paper plate on my desk. I don’t respond. I just wait for the soft click of the door, followed by the locks sliding back into place.

The walls around me are bare, except for the pictures. Hundreds of Santas. Grinning, waving, climbing down chimneys, holding perfectly wrapped presents in homes that aren’t mine. They watch me, all smiles and twinkling eyes. Sometimes, I think I smell gingerbread wafting from them. But I know better.

I don’t remember everything. A party, a fight, a tree. A tree that wasn’t a tree. And a song, winding through it all like a thread of madness. Then nothing. Darkness swallowing me whole.

Now I’m here. The nurses smile, but there’s nothing behind it. Their hands are cold, their questions endless. They say I’m safe, but I don’t believe them. The pills they give me make everything soft and distant. Everything, except December.

In December, I smoke.

It’s my only ritual, and I do it every year, without fail. The pack stays hidden behind the vent, one cigarette for each day until the end of the month. I light them carefully, like they’re the only things tying me to the ground.

The smoke curls up, sharp in my throat, and I watch it drift toward the Santas. They never move, but I swear their eyes follow me, tracking each puff like it’s the only thing keeping the world real.

I don't smoke because I enjoy it. I smoke because it reminds me. Reminds me of the fire, of the trailer burning to the ground, of the life I left in the ashes. Of the monster I killed, and perhaps the one I became to do it. The smoke pulls me back to that night—the heat, the crackling of wood, the roaring flames and the ancient screaming. As my father disappeared into the fire and I crawled out, broken but alive. It pulls me back to that moment where everything burned, and for once, I wasn’t afraid.

I take another drag, and the world sharpens. I’m not trapped here, not really. They think I am, but I know better. This is just another room, another place to wait out the winter. The Santas can watch all they want. The nurses can smile and nod and ask their questions, but they don’t understand.

I survived.

They don’t know it, but I already escaped.

As the smoke fades, I flick the ash into a cup, watching the embers glow like tiny fires—little reminders that I’m still standing. The cold air from the vent whispers over my skin, and for a moment, I almost smile.

The past is ash. The fire’s still burning.

I light another cigarette. December’s just getting started.