Christmas Craving

TW: Physical violence, gore, drugs, self-harm, adult themes, sexual situations

Detective Harding arrived at Sam Bristletons house three weeks after Christmas. He got a call from Sam’s ex-wife, Dawn, that she hasn’t seen Sam in weeks and that she isn’t answering her phone calls, and Dawn is a mess.

Being Dawn’s friend for years, Harding agreed to check in on Sam for her. He knew tye problems they had, Sam's drinking, so checking on her felt like the least he could do for them.

Harding had to bash the door in with his foot. When he stepped inside the house, it was a mess, it smelled awful. He couldn't believe such a smell existed.

A naked woman covered in blood, lay still on the floor next to a coffee table. Blood poured from her ears from pencils she pierced into her eardrums. Her nose was full of pins she stuffed into her nostrils. Harding could tell from the wounds all over her body, except for the places she couldn’t reach, that she skinned herself with a pocketknife, which was found in the kitchen, next to a pot of boiled clothing.

Next to Sam, was a dark green bag, and a letter that said Mistletoe & Holly.

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Four weeks earlier

In the cold winter gloom, I walk down the white road with a box of my personal items. I think about my wife and what I’ll tell her, how I’ll tell her.

Three years of my life, I worked for McCarthy Industries. For three years, I worked my ass off; I even did everything by the book! I lost friends because of how many hours I put in. My wife is expecting a baby and they have me working weekends until nine at night!

One of the houses has a porch with bird feeders.

I stop to admire.

It was lit up by a bug zapper and a light through a window on the door.

There were birds just this morning.

Now, in the cold, lonely night, the feeders stay vacant, full of the seeds the birds didn’t want.

This morning, I saw a nuthatch grab a sunflower seed, then jump on the railing where it hit the seed against the wood multiple times until the seed opened. It looked at me and chirped before flying away.

I had thought that maybe it was a good omen, and even though my mom died a few weekes ago, I might still make it.

Maybe, my luck will finally flourish; I naively thought.

Then I was fired.

When I arrived at my house, I could see a box on my porch. I placed my box of personal items down, and picked up the mysterious box, noting how light it was.

I went to open the door, but a yellow sticky note stood out on the peephole.

On it, it read:

Dear Sam,

I thought I could get passed your behavior, but I was wrong. This past year I no longer feel safe with you, or you near my baby. I’m leaving so don’t try to find me.

Goodbye.

That's it?

Furious, I yank the note down. I put the box underneath my arm so I can grab my key and unlock the door, which I find out, is unlocked.

That bitch! I thought. Can’t even lock a damn door!

I throw the box on the table. I go immediatly to my kitchen where I grab a beer from my fridge, along with a leftover pizza, and a bottle of Xanax from my cupboard. I return to the table where I unload my haul.

I start with Xanax. I take two.

I can’t tell you how long I sat at my table just staring at the box, until I finally stood up, taking my knife from my back pocket and started the knife at one of the ends of the box where the tape drapes over the side. I then pull it towards me; I listen to the satisfying sound of the tape tearing, somehow sounding smooth.

A gap separated the box flaps. I grab both flaps eith my hands and open it like a book. Bubble wrap, which was piled into the box, ached to get out.

Inside the box, underneath the bubble wrap, sits another box; smaller, made of wood. It was wrapped in a velvet bow, a white envelope could be seen underneath the dark color of the ribbon, making its white stick out.

I delicately pull one of the two tails of the ribbon, making the loops go down into themselves; I pull the paper from the box.

On the front was a standard white envelope with a triangle tucked to the inside. If you turn it over, you can see Mistletoe & Holly.

By golly, I thought, earning myself a chuckle that then turned to a soft cry.

Once my cheeks were dry, I took a large sip of beer, opening the envelope with one hand. Inside is an eight inch by seven inch piece of paper, and written on it in a green and red pattern was:

Ho, ho, ho!

Merry Christmas!

We heard you were feeling a little down and thought you might need to come up!

Don’t read more until you open the box, it said underneath.

Below it was more writing, it looked like instructions.

I wanted to be good, so, I put the letter down.

I grab the box, it fit in my hand nicely. It opened like a jewelry box—making me feel a slight bit fancy—revealing a small, dark green bag.

“Jesus Christ,” I said at the abundance of packaging.

The bag had drawstrings tied around the top of the bag. I grab the strings and pull them from each other.

But before I looked inside the bag, I remembered the writing.

1.     Open the bag

2.     Take out seeds

3.     Enjoy as is

Underneath the instructions was a text in red.

WARNING: Taking this drug can cause dangerous symptoms, both physically and mentally. With this drug you will definitely go up, but you might not come down.

I made a face, mocking the warning. I took the open bag, looked inside, then poured the contents into my palm. Four large, black seeds came out. I took one in between my index finger and thumb and moved it around, feeling its oily smooth surface.

Who gave me these drugs?

Why the Hell would someone give me drugs?

I put the seeds back in the bag, the bag back in the box, and the box back in the bigger box.

There was no way I was going to try random drugs! Whoever thought of this business move is an idiot.

With that being said, I closed the flaps of the box.

On the postal label I see that it’s from McCarthy Industries and I scoff. I couldn’t believe they fired a brilliant mind like me but kept a raging dirtbag who gives free drugs to random people!

. . .

Unless it wasn’t random.

Maybe they fired me on purpose. Maybe this whole thing was a ruse.

“Perhaps,” a sweet voice called from behind me.

I turn around, still in my chair, to see my beloved wife with a little girl standing next to her. My wife’s light purple hair, draped over her shoulders.

How?

For some reason, I didn’t speak.

Even though its her?

I wanted to.

Why not?

I don’t know why I can’t.

My mouth is so dry.

I turned back to the table; my head was like a broken record, it kept turning and turning, until it stopped, and I was looking at the box, with a box, with a bag. But the bag was outside of the box which was outside of the bigger box.

Three seeds sat on the table.

The chair felt hard against my butt, but I couldn’t move.

Swoosh, Swoosh, Swoosh, went my ceiling fan.

I don’t have a ceiling fan.

Hands gripped my shoulders, making me jump, the fingers so cold. I turned back, this time so quickly, I nearly fell.

It was my wife.

She turned my whole chair around, and jumped into my lap, putting her lips over my face.

I had a whiplash sort of feeling in my stomach, then my groin. I could feel pleasure in my privates. My penis. Which was odd, considering I’m a woman. But I do, and it feels natural.

With my new organ, I couldn’t tell if I had always been a boy, or if I even had one this whole time.

I laughed at myself.

"What?" My wife stopped kissing me.

"Nothing," I say as I wrap my arms around my wife. "But, what about Roxy?” I asked, kissing my wife's neck.

“She’s at daycare,” my wife said, except it sounded a lot scarier to me, like the devil himself.

I brushed past it.

We made love in the dining room. It was a brand-new feeling of lust in our relationship; I haven’t felt this way since our honeymoon.

I felt amazing! Pure bliss!

. . .

And then I didn’t. As quick as an orgasm, my bliss was gone. Reality came back and I hated it.

My wife is gone.

Roxy isn’t even real; she’s my dead dog from fifteen years ago.

I stare around the room feeling the air against my face, smelling the pizza on my table, tasting the saliva in my mouth, hearing my fridge make ice, and feeling the ground beneath my feet.

Feeling. I wanted that feeling back and these new feeling to screw off.

I look back at the table with the seeds that sit in the dark bag, in the dark box, and in the great big, empty, shadow of the even bigger box.

What if I just take one? Surely it wouldn’t hurt.

No. I can’t.

I get up to walk around my kitchen, where I pace back and forth. It’s starting to get hot, so I take my shirt off and throw it on the stove. My legs were on fire, so I took off my black, furry, leggings, and again, I throw them on the stove.

I decide to make a soup because I'm hungry.

Not much more than that.

I stand in the kitchen, in my underwear, with a beer in my hand. I sip at the beer, but nothing comes out, my bottle is empty. I didn’t even notice, I only know how dry my mouth is when I smack my lips.

I walk into my living room. I don’t remember it being here. On my coffee table, in front of my couch, is the bag. Not the box or the box the box was in, but the bag. It sat next to my two TV remotes and on top of a book my wife gifted me. I ran up to the bag and poured out the seeds.

There are three left.

Should I take another?

When did I take the first one?

My mind is spinning, and I am freezing, my bare skin against the cold air of my house.

There’s a knock on my door.

I didn’t walk to my door; I was already there.

Opening it, I sense dread.

I quickly closed it before I could see who was there.

The person began to bang on the door.

“LET ME IN!” A man screamed.

I stumble backwards.

I didn’t know who it was.

There were Christmas trees all around me. The smell of pine was strong, I could smell a weird metal behind the pine.

Around the trees were brown tree skirts that reminded me of manure. I put my hand to my mouth, feeling the pizza and beer come up. I didn’t puke, but I felt it in my throat, clawing at the sides like a bunch of hands.

I fell to my knees, grasping for my face. My knees shatter when they hit the floor, sending chills through my spine, the feeling of hands crawling up my throat.

The banging on the door gets louder, the smell of pine intensifies.

The walls twirl and twist. My eyes hurt, the pain throbbing behind my eyes.

Then it all stopped.

Everything stopped.

I look around the room, I’m naked, laying on the cold floor. I grab for the coffee table, my hair getting in the way of my view. The bag was gone, along with the boxes; on the table were two seeds.

My heart pounds.

I leap for the seed.

I grab it and keep it between my thumb and pointer finger, I look at it, examining it.

How did I eat two already?

I’m not in my living room, I’m in my kitchen, knives and forks lay all over the linoleum floor. The bottom of my feet is bruised and blistered, my knees are covered in dirt, blood could be seen, falling from my left breast.

Outside the window, above my sink, I see a woman hanging from a tree in my backyard. I stare at her and watch as she falls to the ground, the rope getting longer.

She stopped four inches from the grass.

Her head looks up at me.

Her face is blue and dead, her eyes droopy. She puts her palms against her cheeks, then swings back and forth, no longer on a rope.

She swings left, her hair follows.

She swings right, her hair follows.

Suddenly, the woman stops dead center and starts a sprint towards the house.

I turned around and ran to the dining room. On the table I saw the box and the box that box was in.

Then I was in the living room. The TV was on, playing that one Claymation about Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. The bag the seeds came in was on the coffee table.

From behind me, the window shatters.

I ran up the stairs.

The hallway to my room was long, almost never ending.

I was then launched like a rubber band, and I slam against the door with my body, my face flat against the wooden surface.

“S-A-A-A-A-M!” The man called from downstairs.

I open the door, closing it behind me.

BANG! A knock on the door.

BANG! It went again.

“Stop it!” I scream, hurting my throat.

Thinking about my throat brought back the feeling of hands clawing their way up.

I crawl for my dresser. I opened the drawer and pulled out a knife that was in its sheath.

The sound of the knocking at the door, the feeling of cold sharp air against my skin like I was sick. I could taste the small little hands clawing out of my throat. The smell of pine protruded my nose. My skin looked twirled and twisted, so red.

I started to feel everything!

The banging at my bedroom door shook my eardrums.

Pine needles lodged into my nostrils, burning like a rug burn.

My skin felt like it was melting, a certain blurry feeling in my blood.

When I looked at my skin, my eyes felt like they were spinning in circles, a pain forming behind my eyes harsher and harsher.

My throat couldn’t hold it any longer, red, thick liquid came gushing from my lips.

When I came to, I saw the little hands running on the floor, grabbing blood full of clots of pizza, and running back towards me.

They had me on the ground as they walked a single file, over my naked body, back into my mouth.

Once they were back in, I stood up, felt dizzy, and fell to the floor, feeling everything, feeling awful.

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I woke up the next morning in agony.

I could see that I was in my living room. I struggled to make it to my coffee table, the wounds on my shins rubbing against the carpet.

On it is the bag, the bag that was in the box with a bow and a letter wrapped around it. I pick it up and empty it. Nothing came out. I fall against my floor, crying, snot coming from my nose, making the cuts in my nose hurt less.

I turn my head, a cut on my forehead, piercing when it connects with the floor.

I could see underneath my couch.

In the shadows, next to dust and an old remote . . .

was one more seed.