A Serpent's Holiday

A Serpent's Holiday

By: Trinity Hunter

If you’re interested in sentimental, lovey-dovey stories, you’re better off watching a Hallmark movie. You won’t find that sort of cheesiness here; unless it’s molded.

Christmas is supposed to be everyone’s favorite time of year. The greedy human race awaits Christmas in anticipation for gifts that they’ll touch once and then forget about for the remainder of the year. As Yuletide closes in, I receive more and more letters from children who think they’re innocently writing to Santa Claus. What they don’t know is that Santa is an artificial alter-ego that I created to cure my boredom.

“Looks like you got some more letters, boss,” My assistant gargoyle, Gary announced, walking into my office and displaying a stack of envelopes. It’s hardly even December and these gluttonous little piggies that everyone else calls children are already bombarding me with all of their hopes and dreams. Gary is always nervous talking to me, referring to me as Boss at the end of every sentence he forms. Twiddling his stone thumbs and looking anywhere but directly into my gaze. Who wouldn’t be anxiety ridden, working for the Angel of Darkness?

“Thank-You, Captain Obvious!” I exclaim, putting emphasis on the Thank-You! I let out a slight chuckle so he understands that I’m just giving him a hard time. After all, my life wouldn’t be anything without making others' lives more difficult. He pastes on a nervous smile. Knowing how intimidated he is by me brings light into my darkened soul.

“You’re welcome, boss,” he replies somewhat fretfully.

He places the stack of around 15 to 20 envelopes on my desk. I notice that every letter is snow white, except for one. In the center of the pile sits an ominous, dark red envelope that’s screaming my name. I’m going to procrastinate reading that one.

I drag the back of my hand across my forehead to wipe the drops of sweat secreting from the base of my horns and hairline. The heat is excruciating. Making it unbearable to read letters that have no real thought behind them. I unseal a few of the envelopes, reading the recipes to satisfy their covetous needs; while still avoiding the red letter. I have a feeling it’s going to irritate me.

In case you haven’t caught on already, my name is Satan; commonly mistaken for Santa. I live in the core of Hell, in a completely black Victorian-style mansion, with deep scarlet tones accenting the entirety of my home. The house was stupidly placed on one of the cliff sides right above one of Hell’s complementary pits of fire; leaving me to suffer the humidity-induced migraine. I’ll make sure whoever came up with that bright idea feels my wrath.

I catch another glimpse of the ruby envelope in my peripheral vision. I feel compelled to rip the envelope open, leaving crimson shreds to fall to the stone floor. Instead, adrenaline will pulse through the vein bulging out of my forehead. My arm stretches out towards the letter, annoyance now consuming me. I grip the letter between my abnormally long index finger and thumb, forcing the letter to meet my glare as I examine it.

It was specifically addressed to “The Depths Of Hell” which basically poured gasoline on the already raging fire behind my eyes. This was a letter from a child, based on the fact that the location was written in pencil. When I search for a return address, I’m left scolded by my failure. I don’t waste any more time inspecting the envelope before sticking the point of my dagger into the corner, and then dragging it along the length of the seal, opening it perfectly. Revealed to me is a red slip of paper, almost as red as the envelope itself. I rip the little red letter out. I’m exposed to the somewhat sloppy handwriting, now in obsidian ink instead of graphite. The letter contains only 5 words:

“I know who you are.”

Rage engrosses my whole being. From the points of my devilish red horns, to the tip of my lengthy tail. Who in their right mind has the audacity to call the Beelzebub out? If this child knows who I am, then who else knows? Or maybe this child just thinks they know. Either way, something must be done.

“GARY!!” I yell at the top of my lungs, in an attempt to summon him. About two or so minutes later I hear stone footsteps approaching my office door in an urgent manner.

Way to hustle I think subconsciously. He explodes through the door, almost falling to the floor as he leans through the entrance. A nervous look is pasted across his face. Nothing out of the ordinary I suppose.

“Yes, boss? How can I help you, boss?” He asks apprehensively. Do you see what I mean? The statue is a nervous wreck. His toes point together and he fidgets with his own hands while still avoiding my glowing amber eyes. Who knew a gargoyle could be so cowardly?

I straighten my face and lower my tone before replying:

“Find the cocky child who wrote this, and bring it to me.” Anger emits from my pores. The steam practically evacuated from my body, trying to escape the hysteric explosion brewing in my chest. I will admit, I have a short temper. Along with my fair share of outbursts, but I feel that this one is justified. I’ll be damned if my cover is blown all because some egotistical little gremlin decided to get brave.

I pass on the letter to Gary, aggressively placing it in his cobblestone palm. I wipe my hand on my suit jacket trying to rub the foulness from the letter out of my fingertips. I already have a solution for that thoughtless kid in mind. Children truly disgust me.

“Yes- Of course- Right away, boss!” He exclaims full of jitters. He has a pep in his step as he bursts back out of my office. Stuffed with joy at the fact that he gets to kidnap a child for malicious intent. I proudly smile watching him skip away, and I get started on typing up my contract.

Gary is my right-hand-man. He completes the tasks I ask of him in a timely manner and complaint free; which is a rare find contemporarily. Even if he is an antsy disaster, I wouldn’t be able to accomplish the things I do without him. Dare I say he’s become a friend?

Am I so lonely that I’ve resorted to companionship?

I like to let Humankind have their false hope, especially regarding Christmastime. After all, humanity would be nothing without it, their lives are too miserable; all thanks to me of course. They need the bogus security Yule provides in order to get through the rest of the mediocre 364 days. Noel's expectations are built up higher than heaven’s gates. Hope of breathtaking gifts, and Hallmark snowy romances plague the mortals. So then when Christmas day finally arrives, and their expectations can’t be met; kids realize Santa is just a fat phony, teens are bedeviled by seasonal depression, and adults sink under the weight of feelings of loneliness when they don’t get their “affair of the heart” they craved. Their hope that they had built up so high, rests crushed beneath the heel of my shoe; and I’m left laughing myself to sleep.

THREE HOURS LATER

I let out a long, deep sigh; the storm residing in my chest departs with my essential exhalation. I focus my attention back towards the other letters. I’m in desperate need of a good laugh. The rest of them are boring, but normal.

“Dear Santa, I want a golden retriever puppy for Christmas!”

There will be a rabid raccoon under that little boy's tree, I’ll make sure of it. I almost liked the thrill of the red letter, I think Gary enjoyed it too. Speak of the devil.

“I got her, boss! I got her!”

This is the most cheerful I’ve seen Gary in a long time. He had a brown burlap sack draped over his right shoulder. With a very unhappy little girl squirming around inside. She was a literal sack of potatoes. On the other hand, Gary had a grin glued to his face, feeling accomplished and proud. He matched my energy perfectly.

“Atta boy Gary. You can let her out now, she won’t be going anywhere.”

He drops the sack on the granite stone floor. An “Ouch!” escapes the girl's lips, right before crawling out of the sack on all fours. From what I can tell she’s young, no more than eight or nine years old. Light brunette hair frames her porcelain face. Her fair complexion is stained by a flush, covering her cheeks and the bridge of her nose. She stands, locking her emerald green eyes onto my amber ones. Not even Gary has been able to achieve that. This girl may be more courageous than she looks. Her jaw drops as she takes in my notable carmine pigmented skin and dark vermillion horns. My tail swings around behind me, hinting at my irritation. I’m sure that catches her eye as well.

“So you know who I am, of course, yet I haven’t had the pleasure to become acquainted with you.” I sneer, squinting my eyes and forming a slight intimidating smirk on my face. The flush in her face fades, and she’s left drained of her color by fear. She has picked up her jaw now, but the shock resides in her eyes.

“I’m Delilah,” she responds short and quickly. She maintains eye contact, but I sense her nervousness from across the room. I can feel the shake inhabiting her hands just by looking at them.

“Delilah, what a pretty name. How did you know I was your beloved Santa Claus? What made you write a seemingly threatening letter to the Lucifer?” I inquire, maintaining the glare affixed to my face. I feel I already know the answer to my own question, at least part of it.

“Well your assistant isn’t the sneakiest spy,” she answers, and continues on, “I saw him last year, creeping through my house and putting a terrible present under my tree.” She’s looking over her shoulder at Gary, “I’m miserable every year during Christmas, the main cause of misery is the Devil, as my parents say. I know Santa Claus isn’t real, so it was more of a lucky guess.” She finishes, turning her attention back towards me. My focus is uninterrupted, for my stare is directed in Gary’s direction. His face is stone cold, more pale than ever before. He’s starting to look like a ghost rather than a gargoyle.

“That still leaves me with no motive. What is it that you want?” I interrogate, “Normal children don’t just send letters to Satan willy nilly.” I will get back to Gary momentarily. She stares at me, as if she’s at a loss for words. The passive aggressive comment indirectly calls her abnormal and, or bizarre. I was unsure if she was intelligent enough to catch on to that.

“I want what you have,” She says, staring directly into my cat-like pupils.

“Which is?” I question, genuinely unable to think of what a fourth grader could want, that I have.

“Unlimited power and potential, of course,” she hurls back. I scoff, a smirk appearing back on my face.

Of course, we’re brought back to the theme of selfishness. It all comes together now, like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. Externally, you can’t see the blood rising to my face with the already red natural coloring of my skin; but I can internally feel it crawling its way up my spine, causing goosebumps to form on the back of my neck. An idea was coming back into mind; an idea arising from the pit of my stomach. This situation holds an immense amount of opportunity for pick-pocketing another soul.

In a split second, I spiritually summon my pre-typed, personalized contract and it appears in the palm of my right hand at my command. Before I became acquainted with my dear friend Delilah, my intuition was telling me that the motivation behind her letter was solely based on her greediness, in other words, unlimited power. Gluttonous little piggy.

I look over at Gary who is currently shaking in his boots. I take note of the little balls of sweat forming on his forehead. In addition to the scroll, I make a black feather pen appear in my left hand. I place it in the bottle of ink on my desk in front of me, and the contract right beside it. Delilah looks at Gary, then back into my gaze, with a confused expression glued to her face. The anger is beginning to die down knowing I’m about to get my way; just like I always do.

“Here for you, I have a contract, a bargain,” I try to contain my excitement, but the grin plastered on my face gives it away. I never had a good poker face, my emotions always get the best of me.

“By signing your beautiful name on this line right here,” I say pointing my index finger at the designated spot for a signature, “You will gain the unlimited aptitude you yearn for. All I need is a signature, to transfer some of my power over to you.”

Delilah’s face lights up with hope, all of the color returning to her features. Maybe she is as dumb as I predicted. My grin remains, in anticipation now instead of excitement. Once again, she nervously glances at Gary; their eyes meeting for only an instant, but there’s more to the little peek.

There is something wrong here.

She slowly steps closer to the end of my desk, gripping the feathered pen in her dominant hand. I telekinetically unroll the scroll out on my desk so that it’s in her direction, awaiting her signature. If this all goes according to plan, she will be too blinded by her selfishness to read the fine print that is selling her soul to me; or too blinded by selfishness to read it at all. Still, a nauseous feeling lingers in my gut, telling me that something is off. The hairs on my forearm stand straight up, as if warning me.

Gary gulps, I hear it from across the room, making my eyes wander to him. I snarl in his direction, letting him know if he’s responsible for whatever is about to happen, there will be dangerous punishments.

Delilah leans down, preparing herself for whatever is about to transpire. I’m not sure what it is yet, but I don’t like it. She dips the pen in the ink, and looks over the agreement one last time.

“Any day now,” I taunt. She looks up at me, shooting me a smirk; but before I can say anything more, she's quickly scribbling her autograph onto the dotted line.

“Until next time,” she finishes, saluting me as she disappears into thin air. In a quick flash Delilah is replaced with a cloud of smoke, escaping to God knows where.

To be continued…