I can't write it

in a story format.

I have to use the

metaphor and line breaks,

because it seems too close.

Too too close.

I don't scream into a pillow.

I don't punch walls.

Because I don't want to leave evidence

of my pain.

If no one can see it, it isn't real.

It isn't real.

IT

ISN'T

REAL.

My body is winter. Covered in thick, white blankets. It’s soft and mushy. You want to touch it. To mold it. To play in it. But those who carry on for too long will fall victim to frostbite. Vengeance. My body— the one I’ve been inside of for too long— has windows. The outside reflected in dark pupils. I see summer outside and imagine dancing in the sun. But my body is winter. Stiff. Cold. A sharp chill runs down my spine as I look down and see the flesh. I hold it, pinched between my thumb and pointer finger. I imagine taking a knife to it and cutting off the excess. But only in the winter, when nobody will notice the scars. In the winter it’s okay to hide. It’s okay to stay inside. To be sad, but only in private. A deep depression washes over me. I combat this virus, which attacks my body, in the only way that I know how. I write. I write a new story for the winter. With my body underneath the covers, I write.

“Jasmine sit still.” She pulled her daughter closer to her as she gripped her long thick mane with one hand and an elastic & paddle brush in the other. “Why must we go through this battle each and every day jasmine!?”

“ Momma, you are hurting my head!” She pulled away from her mom and asked for her purple brush back. “Let me do it.”

“ No ma’m! Last time you did your own hair for a week and it took me about a month to finally work all of those dreadful knots out of your hair. Need I find the pic in my cell phone?”

Jasmine placed her hand on her hip in a defiant pose. “Fine! But all my friends in first grade do it themselves! You aren’t fair.”

“Good for them. Now today I’m doing it and besides it is picture day. Now hold still and let me put this last braid in.”

Her daughter fell to the floor and crossed not only her legs but her arms too. She wanted to be fierce and independent like her two older sisters and best friend. Her mom did not understand she was perfectly capable of keeping the knots out of her hair and taking care of herself. Her mom would not approve of it though.

Maybe someday. ....

I took a long drag of a cigarette to soothe my growing anxiety before flicking the butt into a nearby ash tray as I scurried down the city sidewalk. Pulling up my sweatshirt about my lips, I glanced around with skeptical eyes. Good. It didn’t look like anyone was following me.

A sudden spark of pain ran up my back, forcing me to halt. I grimaced and popped a painkiller. I’m too old for this. I should have made this someone else’s problem. Picked a successor to take over all those years ago. Take this burden off my aching back. Before everything went to hell. Before I was forced to live in the shadows.

I fiddled with a gold ring on my middle finger. My fingers traced over the silver bell in the place of traditional jewels. Over time it had worn an indent into my hand. Ever since my predecessor gave it to me. A long standing tradition.

I could use a drink.

My eyes drifted over a news podcast in a store window. The newscaster was reporting some story about the Christmas lights on the big tree in the city square failing. Bummer. Guess that Christmas magic isn’t in the air tonight. I wonder why that is, I questioned sarcastically.

At last, I reached my destination--the only bar open on Christmas. The place was basically empty and only one bartender was working that night.

I could easily see the reason why--it was written all over him in a gloomy dark teal shadow. Poor fellow had his heart torn out. Three, no two days ago. Probably insisted on working to get his mind off it. Poor kid didn’t deserve such a fate, especially not someone on the Nice List.

“Get me an old fashioned.” My deep voice startled the lad as he stumbled to complete my drink.

I slipped him a ten spot. “Thanks there, laddie.”

“So,” he began, “what’s your name?”

“Nick.”

“Why are you out here drinking on Christmas? Shouldn’t you be at home with your family or loved ones?”

I didn’t reply. I didn’t have an answer. What loved ones could I possibly be with? What home could I possibly return to? No, corporate America made sure I would never have either of those again. The kid continued. “I bet you’re probably wondering why I’m here on Christmas.”

Not really.

“It’s because I don’t have anyone to be with. My girlfriend just dumped me and I haven’t really seen my family since I left for college. Ah well, this isn’t so bad. Students loans don’t pay themselves. Partial scholarships only get you so far.”

“I suppose.” I set down the empty glass. “Thanks for the drink.” I got up to leave. Just as I exited, I added. “You’re a good kid, Jimmy Dimmers. Good thing will come to you. Just you wait.”

“How did you know--hey wait!” He bolted to the door as I vanished into an onset snowstorm’s white winds. “Where did he go?”

I wasn’t expecting to see Jimmy every again. That’s just how it goes. I meet someone, then disappear. Into another town, another country. I don’t have the luxury to stay in one place. I have to remain hidden.

But then, a week later, before I had a chance to get on a train and fade away from this place, I saw him again. Jimmy out on 5th street, stocking up on cheap and officially out of season Christmas decorations. “It’s you!” He exclaimed with arms full of stockings and plastic presents.

Tsk. I held my baseball cap low and headed into a dense shopping crowd. It would take me at least two minutes to summon another snowstorm to use as cover. My power was dwindling.

“Wait!” I felt a tug my coat’s elbow. “You’re pretty fast for an old man. Anyway, I’ve been wanting to ask you: how did you know my name?”

“I know a lot of things. A lot of people.” Only thirty more seconds till the snowstorm.

“Have we met before?”

Fifteen seconds.

“Still, I feel like I would remember someone like you. You’re kind of…”

It’s here.

Twisting winds viciously swept around the streets, clawing at civilian’s faces and urging them inside.

I directed a strong wind towards Jimmy, pushing him away, but he clamped on tighter.

The wind whipped at my clothes, ruffling my layers and my coat’s collar. My white beard fluffed up from beneath, sprouting out like a piece of white cotton candy.

“Magical.” Jimmy breathes with the soft glow of wonder on his eyes. “You’re Santa Claus.”

Everyone else had already fled. We were the only two left outside. Hidden by my spinning storm.

“I—I can’t believe it.” Jimmy stuttered.

“Then don’t. It doesn’t matter anyway. The magic is go—“ I burst into a fit of coughing.

“Oh my god! Santa! Are you okay?”

“Don’t… call me… that!” I hacked. A few drops of blood stained the palm of the hand I coughed into. “There’s nothing left! It’s gone!”

“Gone?” Jimmy echoed. “The magic?” His eyes widened. “Is that what caused the storm? Your magic?”

I couldn’t stop coughing long enough to reply. My lungs burned like a spiteful elf lit them on fire. “We need to get you out of here!” Jimmy began to pull me blindly the storm.

Desperately, he tried to lead me to his apartment building. With a few sideways glances from his security guard, he managed to take me upstairs to his apartment. “Just lay down on the couch.” Jimmy said. “I’ll get you some tea with honey. That’ll help your sore throat.”

Sore throat? As if that was all this was. Turning the ring on my finger, I gazed at it longingly.

I really should have gotten a successor.

“Here.” He set it down on the table. “Careful, it’a a little hot.”

“Thank you, young man.”

He blankly stared at me “So, you’re really Santa, huh?”

“I suppose I am still the current Santa.”

“Current?”

“‘Santa’ is just a title. Past down from Santa to Santa, each choosing a new successor. A position for the one who delivers happiness to the children of the world.” I coughed. “But that’s over now.”

“Because the magic is gone?”

I nodded grimly.

“But how! How can the magic just… be gone? Aren’t you magic? With your reindeer? And elves? And flying sleigh?”

“Those things… they’re all gone now. Gone with the North Pole. Melted by global warming. There’s no workshop anymore. No toys. No happiness. No magic and no Santa.” I whispered. “I’m but a dying relic of an old era. My magic…” I swirled a mini snow storm over the palm of my hand. “Is nearly gone. I’m too old to be Santa anymore. Too alone.”

I coughed again. Taking a deep breath I knew: I only have a few minutes left.

“You can’t just give up!” Jimmy declared. “The kids need Christmas. When I was growing up, seeing your gifts underneath the tree was the only thing that let me survive the pressure of my overbearing mother. They need you!”

“You’re a gentle soul, aren’t you?” I said. “A high tier middle of the Nice List ever since you were a little tike.”

“Umm, thank you?”

“With a kind heart and fierce passion for others.”

I removed the ring from my finger and held it out, letting the light glimpse off it. “Here, child.”

As he took it from my hand, I closed my eyes and envisioned my old home. Ginger the Elf with the latest letters. Mrs. Klaus with a fresh batch of cookies. I smiled at it all.

And I never opened my eyes again.

I always wondered what it would be like to be loved.

Sitting, pacing, heart racing.

I never thought that I would wonder if I am loved.

Unknown, uncertain, unseen.

Smiles and laughter make me more certain.

Happy, blissful, over the moon.

Soon after I wonder was that all me searching?

Skin crawling, Eyes darting, me starting to fall

I ask petals to tell me if our love is real.

lost feeling, heart reeling, waiting to hear

One falls, then another, weighted with a question.

They blow with the wind and take with them answers.

Answers that I will never know.

Slouching on the stool looking up at the lights and my neck is stiff

My mouth’s ajar a voice barely escaping repeating

“There it is”

The nerves around my spine tingling

I’m swirling like a Van Gogh painting

Spilling vomit yellow

Porcelain wrists bent backwards exposing pale blue veins

There’s a tightness in my throat from forgetting to exhale

The brush handle between my index and middle digs in red

Irises here and almond blossoms there

Everywhere

All that’s leftover is the canvas full white

What do you do at the witching hour?

My feet pounded against the cement. My breath was ragged and my vision blurry. Sweat stinged my eyes and joined with tears as I forced myself forward.

What do you do at the witching hour?

The moonlight lit my path from above, guiding me like a divine savior. But, it also illuminated me. Put a spotlight on me for those for followed, like a backstabbing traitor.

What do you do at the witching hour?

As I sprinted down the street I watched as every window, every door that wasn’t already nailed down with wood slam shut, sealing themselves in. And me out.

What do you do at the witching hour?

I felt my body lurch forward as I tripped over a rock. My body slammed against the ground, shattering my kneecap. I couldn’t run anymore.

What do you do at the witching hour?

I gazed up as ebony black silhottes surrounded me.

What do you do at the witching hour?

You try to survive.

But not all do.