Bony Turkey and Ugly Elves

“I only had one thing on my wishlist this year, Mama!” a young boy tells his mother. “I want a sister!”

“You can’t have a sister,” the young boy’s mother tells him.

“Why not, Mama?” asks the young boy.

“Because you’re not on the nice list,” the young boy’s father says. The young boy is in tears.

They are sitting at the dinner table, the young boy, his father, his mother, and a creepy elf-on-the-shelf on the other end staring at him. The young boy is sure his parents bought it solely for the purpose of frightening him. The thought creates a churn in the young boy’s stomach.

The young boy’s father says grace, holding hands with the young boy’s mother but forgetting to hold hands with the young boy.

The young boy’s mother piles bony turkey onto the young boy’s plate, so much he feels like throwing up.

“I don’t like turkey, Mama,” the young boy informs her, staring at it in disgust. “And I can’t eat bony meat or I’ll choke.”

“Just eat it,” the young boy’s mother orders, seemingly ungrateful for him and doesn’t seem to mind if he chokes.

“But, Mama, I can’t eat—”

“Eat your food,” the young boy’s father instructs. He picks the smallest possible piece and nibbles it.

“Can we open presents please, Mama?” the young boy asks with twinkles in his eyes.

“Fine.”

“Yay!” the young boy cheers, his feet pounding as they shift one way or another on the way down to their poorly decorated Christmas tree.

The tags are all gifts from the young boy’s mother and father directed to each other, the irritating “Awww,” sentenced to their voices when they gleam at one another. But the young boy knows he cannot be alone. Not this Christmas.

There is one boxed present underneath the tree from his grandmother — the only person in the young boy’s family that enjoys his company. The young boy shakes it with wide eyes.

“Who is that from?” barks his mother, narrowing her eyes. The young boy pulls his only gift closer to his chest.

“Grandma!” he exclaims, his smile quickly fading. “It’s for me!” The young boy does not want to sound arrogant nor excited, so he keeps his voice somewhat monotone.

“Open it.” The words come like an order.

You are supposed to be joyous on Christmas, the young boy is thinking.

The young boy unwraps the colorful wrapping paper to unveil a small toy fire truck, coated with a pretty layer of red paint. The siren even lights up!

Knowing he is supposed to be grateful, the young boy utters a light prayer in thanks to his grandmother.

“Let me see that,” says the young boy’s father, inching closer. The young boy pulls his gift closer, but this makes the young boy’s father more suspicious. “You don’t deserve this.”

The young boy shoves his body up the staircase into the attic. The young boy cries there for what seems like ages, until the young boy’s parents are done with him.

***

I was a young boy once. I am not anymore. I wake up one morning to the bright sun and a speck of dust in the air. It must be autumn; or nearly winter. I suspect it is one of those switches between November and December that changes your perspective of the Earth and the cruel thing it is as a whole.

Every morning, in my head reliving the ugly Christmas day my parents reminded me of every ounce of guilt they shoved into my throat, I have to check on the trap. No animals. I have not eaten in a few days, my abdominal area is beginning to feel tight and skinny.

The city is a few miles in the opposite direction of the forest, where I try to acquire a plateful of food. From here, I can see a hut I don’t think I have ever seen before on the opposing side of the gravel road. It looks just like my parents’.

I shudder. But it can’t be—they died a few years ago and sold their old hut.

Stepping closer because of my irrational beg for food, I knock lightly a few times, taking a moment to realize it was my best friend and I’s secret knock back in Georgia.

“Hello?” I call, scanning the doorbell. Everything is just the same.

“Ugh, boy’s home again, Ronald!” a woman says, throwing her head over her shoulder to smile at a young man in the kitchen prepping what looks like turkey. They both seem familiar. “Come in, come in, get ready for dinner.”

A free meal?

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank us, it’s our job,” she spits.

“Sit down,” orders the man, pointing to a worn-down wood chair on the left side of the head seat.

Sitting on the table at the across side of the head seat, on the place mat, is a doll-shaped thing sort of resembling a worn-out elf.

“Eat,” the woman orders, piling a stack of meat onto my plate.

“Thank you again, kind folks,” I coo, smiling.

“We should thank you,” the man sort of banters. “You are showing a rather unusual lack of complaining.”

This is suspicious.

I get on my knees and crawl over to the presents, which are not a large amount, under the evergreen tree.

There is one with my name on it from my grandmother.

I peel the wrapping paper from the box to reveal the packaging for a firetruck. It is a beautiful coat of red with sirens that light up. What is going on?

I have to get out of here before I come back …

I know it sounds strange. 

I dart out of the hut, stowing a few of the boned turkey in my pouch.

****

Back at my hideout, I see the hut. No one seems to be entering; which means my parents are still inside and I have not come yet. The greed reaches me and I feel like entering again. If I don’t complain I could feel welcome. The self-conceit creeps up the back of my spine and I inch closer to the hut.

Entering, I take my seat on the left of the head seat, which my father sits at. An elf sits on the place mat opposing the head seat, and the box is still under the tree where it is supposed to be. My parents are still frowning at me though I have not done anything wrong.

Though I hate reliving a holiday I feel ashamed of, I do remember something.

I was a young boy once, and it wouldn’t hurt to be one again.