Something Red, Something Dead
(332 words)
Huh.
How about that.
Santa Claus is real.
I look at the body lying at my feet. He has a beard (real, I notice) and a red coat lined with fur (fake, I assume). He wears black boots and is still clutching a large brown bag. The complete traditional dress.
He’s not breathing anymore. I’m barely breathing myself, to be honest.
Some part of me wonders what time it is. It’s still dark out. Last night a bottle of wine had me falling asleep on the couch in this forest cabin retreat, far away from everything. Next thing I knew, someone’s in the room with me. Someone big, someone red. So I grabbed the fire poker and started hitting.
What else could I have done?
I drop the poker. My hands are trembling.
I take him (Santa Clause!) by the ankles and start dragging. He’s heavy. I can’t drag him far, but far enough. Soon we’re outside. I go back for a shovel. Sweat prickles my scalp. The air is cold. I work in a daze. The ground is hard and my arms are weak. I can only dig a shallow grave.
I puke behind a bush.
I must have gone back inside, at some point. I find myself sitting on the couch, the shovel still in my hands. Did that just happen? Was that real? There are drag marks on the floor, the fire poker abandoned beside them. I start shaking.
I sit in the dark waiting till I wake up from this nightmare. Then I notice Santa’s bag is still lying in front of the fireplace. I’ll have to bury that too. Or burn it.
A thump on the roof. Another one.
A scratching noise comes from the chimney. It grows louder. And louder. Something heavy drops down into the fireplace, sending up a cloud of ashes.
Something big. Something red. Something lined with fur.
Something still covered in soil.
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