12 - 4

Mel woke up to silence on Christmas Day, a chill far colder than the snow outside. It gnawed at her bones that ached and groaned as she stirred from her slumber. Undisturbed. Unusual. 

Unsettling. 

She blinked away the last of her sleep and rubbed its remnants from her eyes, swift attempts to start her day all in hopes to get it over with sooner. Sure, she had already woken up with a frown on her lips and surrender in her eyes, but Mel Finster was no Grinch. She was not green nor grisly nor vengeful with misread intent. Instead, she was pale and pretty and vindictive with intent as cryptic as she. And that made her all the more cruel. She did not sneer at the holiday nor its spirit; in fact, she welcomed it, but cheer was never eager to be a friend.

Mel had grown indifferent to it long ago. Cheer was only a scratch of joy and its sentiment. It was temporary. There was no need to mourn cheer when she had joy itself for a sister, forever rooted to her by blood and by soul. Her name was April. She was her closest friend. And her only friend alive. 

“April?” Mel called out, rising from her covers. Her sheets were twisted around her frame and littered with her belongings– a stark contrast to the other side of her bed still tucked and untouched. It was tidied with care unlike the rest of her surroundings, which remained suspiciously quiet even after a few moments passed. Where was she? 

April was radiant and she was loud, every part of what Mel had lost in her violent mourning, perhaps why she only ever kept April far away from its wrath. There were many people Mel had wronged, none of them mattered so long as they weren’t April. The curls of April’s hair were bright and blonde, while Mel’s had grown flat and unbrushed, painted in the same shade of midnight where she had built herself a home to brood. April was very dear to her, many years younger yet all the more intelligent. Loss after loss, Mel cowered in her darkness while April only ever beamed brighter, a beacon of joy in defiance of their grief. 

April glowed all twelve months of the year. And no lights shone brighter on Christmas. Mel always loved that about her. Joy always burned brighter than misery, yet only in such light could darkness be both seen and softened. Albeit condemned, misery could not exist without the presence of joy– even if it meant such joy was never truly her own. She had grown indifferent to it long ago.

Christmas mornings in the Finster household were almost suffocating in their joy, but it was the silence this year that made the air too thick to swallow. There was a time where Mel tried to love the holiday, but December was a month of joy. So no one thrived in it more than her little sister. Christmas day was her favourite day of the year. A few small gifts would be left under the tree, but with all their years spent alone but together, they found themselves content enough with the gift of each other's company. They would wake up, eat breakfast, then open presents, and April would pick the brightest bouquet of flowers for her vase in the living room. That was it. That was how things had always been. 

Even as less and less people took their seat at the table, as their mother abandoned them, and their father fled before April could piece together the innocent letters to ‘why’. Even as the seats at the dining table aged in dust and only echoes of Mel’s own marriage remained– April filled every empty room with joy. Even the one in Mel’s heart.

On Christmas mornings, April would sing and dance and help cook a feast like no other, serenading the house and roping in the first victim she got her hands on to wear only the most mortifying, homemade sweaters. This time last year Mel had woken up beside Fin to the sight of April clambering onto their bed, gleefully confessing her mission to hang mistletoe above them. Her efforts were futile yet entertaining, her good intentions met with tides of laughter. Mel always found everything funnier when Fin laughed, just as she always found everything happier with April. Perhaps that was what made him so great, and why she mourned him now more than ever. They all burst into fits of giggles that morning, especially Mel. Fin claimed he didn’t need mistletoe to kiss his wife and then promptly proved his point, much to April’s disdain, who squealed childishly and covered her eyes. Mel could still remember the soothing sound of his heartbeat as she lay there on his chest… and swiftly threw herself out of bed before it sank in once more that it had stopped four months ago.

It was four months ago. 

Mel shook her head. She swore to herself to not let her misery get in the way of joy… joy that was nowhere to be found.

“April?” She repeated again. Her words were laced in the same urgency as her movements, brisk steps around the sorrowful pits of her room before rushing out the door.

Mel opened her bedroom door to silence. 

Deafening, eerie silence.

Darkness had never felt so unfriendly, even to her. It acted unfamiliar, leaving a bitter taste in her mouth.

No strength could restrain the shiver that went down her spine, staring down the hallway and its décor shrouded in gloom. Mel walked to April’s room with a gust of haste behind her, reasoning with herself along the way.

April had gone to bed on Christmas Eve with the threat of a bustling morning ahead, Mel just hadn’t expected it to start off so quietly. With each cautious step across the floorboards, the chances of joy hiding amidst such darkness grew slimmer and slimmer in Mel's mind. Was this the first year that April had overslept? 

Silence. 

Where was she? Mel couldn’t hear her. Nor could she see her. Was she hurt? What if she was hurt? Misery always braced for the worst, but she had presumed the worst had already passed on with Fin and his illness. Images of her dear sister, painted in his shade of death, churned through her mind against reason. Mel winced at the display, shaking them away in rampant denial, when her eyes caught light leaking from beneath April’s closed door. 

Her steps softened and her shoulders slumped, a light smile of relief drawing her lips as she walked towards the door. Mel could already sense what was awaiting her: an eager April ready to jump out and scare her, her curls clad in an elf hat and a jumper for Mel to despise. She tapped her fist against the door. 

But the door swung open upon impact. 

And April was nowhere to be found. 

Mel’s smile dropped, as did the beating heart in her chest. 

April’s bed was neatly made and her stuffed animals were tucked in with care. All as usual. She turned to them with squinting eyes, and could’ve sworn they greeted her with new, unsettling smiles. Webs of Christmas lights danced across the room, blinding lights leaving Mel squinting in discomfort. The silence rang in her ears as she searched every inch of April’s room, every hiding spot and every shadow.

Where was she?

Everything was in order bar some red string on her bedside table, likely left behind in the aftermath of gift wrapping. Mel spared them no thought; April was always meticulous with her decorating.

Her chipped nails ran through her hair, words harsh at her throat, “This better not be your attempt at humour, Airy.” 

Silence. 

Then chaos broke. 

Room after room, Mel scoured for any trace of her sister. And room after room, her efforts became more frantic. Her ears strained for any sign of April’s laughter and her limbs rattled with fear-fuelled adrenaline, barging through every door and through every empty room. 

“Come on, Airy. This isn’t funny.” Mel panted as she scrambled down the stairs. She didn’t realise how long it had been. The full morning had arrived without April nor her joy, and not even its sun could make up for the murk that hung amidst the hallways. Mel Finster was infamous for the fire in her eyes, but if there truly was anyone in the house with her, they would not have struggled to catch the gloss that had smothered those flames, glass on the verge of shattering as time went on. 

This time she yelled, her voice cracking under the weight of her turmoil, “If this is some big adventure where the prize is whatever ugly sweater you’ve got waiting for me, can we skip to the ending?”

Silence.

“I won’t complain about it at all. Promise! Not even once. All day.” Mel implored, hoping to bribe a noise out of the stillness. “I’m serious! In fact, I know I’m gonna love it. Not a peep from me at all… I-I’ll even pinkie swear if it makes you feel better!” All to no avail. 

Mel’s heart continued to pound in her chest, a marching beat swiftly drowned out by her rising tides of heaving. She wasn’t used to being scared. She floundered across the house, fumbling with doorknobs and cursing under her breath, all while envisioning the worst as she swung open every door. Instead, all were empty. Mel didn’t know what she preferred. It was a house that was already far too big for two, but to Mel, it had never felt bigger.

At best, misery had lost joy, and at worst she was careless enough to let her die along with laughter. Perhaps this was the reason cheer was never eager to be a friend; for if it came any closer, Mel would let it die too.

There was no singing nor dancing nor smell of pancakes in the air this Christmas morning. All tinsel had lost its shimmer and all lights had lost their glow. The house and its walls missed her all the same. Christmas was without April. The twelfth without the fourth. 

Mel wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but April was still nowhere to be found. Her steps grew heavier, her movements slower, burdened with the weight of that damning silence that only sunk deeper into her bones. A woman of such poise and power, doused to a mere fume of her wrath she served. She stumbled over her own feet and left chaos in her wake, doors and drawers wide open, their contents splattered across the floor. Mel hoped that one of them would be a clue to lead her back to April, but there was nothing.

Nothing. The house was spotless and April-less. No soul nor feast nor ugly sweater awaited her. She checked the empty kitchen and braved the dining room, covering her ears to drown out Fin’s laughter before it could twist into something more hurtful. Her mouth was dry. Her eyes had dampened. Nothing. 

Mel couldn’t find her sister anywhere.

The living room was her final stop, a defeated trek from one space void of hope to another. A living room with no life. How ironic. 

Mel couldn’t bring herself to face the Christmas tree that stood solemnly in the corner. It was tall, lush and beautiful. And it meant nothing. 

In the midst of her despair, Mel’s foot caught itself on the carpet, tripping and stumbling and bumping right into the living room’s coffee table. Even in such disarray, Mel was quick to scoop up the nearest item on the table before it crashed to the floor. 

A string of curses bubbled at her throat, but its thread was cut short once she realised what she had grabbed.

It was April’s vase.

Cracked and bloodied. 

Mel’s breath caught in her throat. April had painted the vase herself many years ago, uneven lines and handprints made out of only the brightest pots of paint— but no handprints were brighter than the ones in fresh blood. They were all identical.

Mel froze entirely. The vase did not slip from her grasp, even as it painted her fingers crimson… for she held it with enough trembling intensity that it swiftly shattered beneath her grip. Its sound pierced the silence and debris littered the floor. A tear of crimson seeped down the curves of her knuckles, while another forged of anguish traced down her cheek… for the first time in over four months. 

Silence. 

It was a silence that slithered across the empty house. Sickly and cruel. Far crueller than she. Her knees buckled. Mel sank to the floor, silently pleading for it to consume her and erase her so long as it meant this was all fake. A pause rung through the air before Mel truly realised what she had done, paralyzed at the massacre before her.

April was hurt. She was nowhere to be found. And Mel had just shattered a part of her.

Mel couldn’t think of anything worse. Her head lowered in shame and her eyes squeezed shut. She hugged the remnants of April and her vase, still grasped in her claws. Mel did not flinch as they wept blood– for its gore was the closest she could get to her little sister. 

Misery was too emotional to think, yet too stubborn to weep. She did not allow herself the privilege of either, not with her sister’s blood on her hands. Instead, she forced down a breath and began to pick up the scattered pieces, placing them back onto the table one by one. Mel let the blood smear onto the plush carpet. She didn’t care about its stain, rather about how the colour had burnt itself into her mind, seeping in through her glossy eyes. 

Red shards. Red hands. Red carpet.

And… red string.

String. It was rough in texture against the velvety floor, catching Mel’s attention who immediately sank her hands into the fur to pull it up to eye level.

She squinted at the thread, her mind racing with thoughts and theories. How had she not seen it? Mel chewed at her lip as she examined it closely, only for her anxious gnawing to loosen once she realised where it came from.

“This is April’s string.” She muttered in confusion, her voice hoarse. She hadn’t realised it was the first time she’d spoken in a while. 

April’s red string. Its spool was still there in April’s room. It was likely mocking her ever since she closed the door. The same red string that Mel hadn’t thought twice on. The same red string that she knew April used every year. 

As she fished it out of the sea of faux fur, more and more unveiled. A trail.

The same red string that could lead misery back to joy.

Blood rushed to her ears. Mel jolted up and yanked the string with her, following its path with frantic eyes, desperate to see where it led. She spared no time, following it recklessly as it circled around the table and weaved through the chairs.

Could this be April’s doing? It was horrible and it was evil, far worse than any felony of Mel’s over the years. Still, misery and joy were blood. There was a moment amidst the chase where she dared to believe it could be true. One big, heinous Christmas prank. Perhaps the handprints were red icing, the vase was forged of sugar. Perhaps this was all part of April’s plan. Joy could be evil too, right?

The string stopped before she could make up her mind. 

Mel jolted as it reached its end: tied to a present that slid out from underneath the tree. A frown drew her lips as she crouched to retrieve it, head pounding at the mere sight. After a slow, long breath, her fingers traced the present.

A box swaddled in colour— wrapping paper, red string and big bows. It was all April.

All but the nametag. That wasn’t April’s writing.

She picked it up in her hands, its glitter adorning her bloodied fingers.

‘To Mel…’

She thumbed the scrawl. Barbed and uneven. Nothing like her little sister’s curls of cursive.

There was no patience left in Mel to linger.

Her nails scraped and tore at the packaging, streams of crimson and cardboard. Her thoughts blurred and the air buzzed. The house held its breath with anticipation as she threw open the lid of the box. 

Silence.

It was a rotted, frayed old thing. Carelessly stuffed. Her chest ached and her stomach churned, unable to make sense of the sight. Wilted flowers. Her hands hovered in the air, and her breath hitched in her throat. Fin knew his flowers, and he taught Mel the same— these were dahlias and tansies. Their scent of decay clung to the air, and their putrid petals near crumbled under her stare. 

This wasn’t April’s doing.

Mel foraged through their corpses for another clue. Another sign. Anything. Frustration churned in her blood, boiling beneath flushed skin as Mel cursed and huffed and snarled. 

Misery could not find any sign of joy anywhere. 

Her fingers tightened around the box, digging into its flesh. Yet just as she raised the box to toss it in her anger, a piece of joy slipped from the wreckage. 

Silence. 

April’s hair. Mel slowly lowered the box and scooped it up in her quivering hands. A few curls, bright and blonde, tied neatly with red string. All paired with a note.

‘Merry Christmas Mel’. It read. ‘I left you something to remember her by.’

Misery’s breath faltered. Her lips trembled. Her eyes began to sting. And as her heart tore in that moment— they all wept together.