Beneath the Christmas Tree: A Haunting Memory

The front door groaned open, and Anna stepped into the house. She had come back from the most wonderful party. Reds and greens were still stuck in her head as she smiled. Christmas was the most wonderful holiday in her opinion, it was beautiful and jolly. The carolers carol, kids unwrap toys, and the Christmas trees are decorated with a star on top. She closed the door behind her and a curious expression appeared on her face; the lights were off. She had come home slightly more early than planned, so her father should have been awake. 

“Pops?” she called out, questioning the dim room in front of her. 

She stepped through the living room. They lived in a small, old apartment. Some walls were green, some orange - either way, the wallpaper was still chipped. They had a dining room table in the top right corner; it was short and small, but the wood was smooth. The kitchen was a small cut-off area in the living room. The floors were fake marble tiles and the counters were as well. Their small apartment was a home, though. Unlike when she was here. She was confused because the couch had a tear on the armrest that hadn't been there before. The kitchen was cluttered with food and there were many dishes in the sink. The floor of the kitchen was covered in some dark red liquid.

Not blood, she knew. It was far too dark to be blood.

"Wine, it must be wine," she mumbled under her breath, reassuring herself. "But who drinks wine in this house?"

She walked past the TV, a small one but it was newer than anything else here. It was usually off unless someone was planted in front of it on the couch, but no one was there and yet it was on. It was playing an old TV show that Anna didn't recognize. It had a young woman with a lean figure and short red hair. She picked up the remote, which was in the cracks of the couch, and shut off the TV.

She walked off and stepped into the long, dark hallway. She gently removed her shoes, pink Mary Jane's, to not get the carpet dirty. Then, for extra comfort, she removed her socks.

The floor creaked under her weight as she continued down the hallway. An eerie feeling crept into her stomach with every step. The hall seemed to become longer and more shadowy as she moved forward.

She felt a chill go down her spine and her blood went cold. "Since when did we get air conditioning," she whispered, under her breath, shivering.

As she moved forward, her gaze locked onto a small photograph lying on the ground. She wasn't surprised as they had many photographs hung up on that wall. They had hung there for so many years that one was bound to fall at a certain point.

But as she bent down to pick up the picture she froze, it was her mother's. It was her mother’s picture… the mother who had left them. The glass frame had shattered and she stared at the ground wondering how it had even gotten there. 

“I- I left this in the attic,” she mumbled, and the eerie feeling only grew.

She looked exactly like her mother. their noses both small and button-like, their long, red hair, tight curls spiraling down to their waists. They had lovely emerald eyes that shone, especially under sunlight. Though, for some odd reason, the resemblance people seemed to notice was their shared porcelain skin. Not a single beauty mark, scar, or blemish lay on her skin. Not one. She enjoyed being complimented on it. Though, her mother had this... elegance and haughtiness that she did not. And for that very reason, the compliments gave her this burning anger deep, deep down.

Her father despised her mother for leaving them, so why would he take the picture from the attic?

She began walking faster than before towards her father’s bedroom. They never had the willpower to move houses and so he slept in the very bedroom he had once shared with her mother. The same wooden door with the same intricate patterns of lions hunting prey, deers dancing like the lightest of ballerinas, and willows singing the same sad toon.

She knocked on the door and tried to remain calm as she said “Pops?”

A grunt in response, he sounded angry.

She hesitated before reluctantly pushing the door open. The laughter and carolers she could hear outside were like a mocking soundtrack as she saw what was in front of her.

There, her father lurched through the chaos of his own making, a maddened puppet controlled by the poisonous strings of alcohol. Bottles were scattered across the floor, reflecting the fractured nature of the moment. Her smile faded and she froze by the doorway, staring at her broken, disgusting old man.

“Papa,” she said, quietly stepping forward. She wanted to save him... or maybe she wanted to save herself.

But the madness in his eyes… it grew. He looked sinister as the air crackled with a terrifying silence. He looked at her and he was a maniac.

Without warning, he stood and the weight of his intoxicated furry overtook his sanity. He pushed her to the ground and a bottle shattered beneath her back. She released a sob of anguish and pain. She felt like her back had torn open and she tried to lift herself up by the elbows. She pushed herself backward until her shoulders met the couch he kept in his room.

He approached her, his stance hardly one of balance, and unleashed a torrent of brutal blows upon her. Each strike landed with a cruel precision that left no room for mercy or love. The relentless assault wrung screams of torment from her, the sound reverberated off the walls like a symphony of suffering. The pure force of the attacks intensified, and she could feel the throbbing pain in her nose, while the metallic taste of blood began to taint her lips. It marked her with the harrowing ordeal.

“Please, look at me!” she screamed, but he was too inebriated to listen. 

Though the sobs were not all hers, they were mine as well. I was her, I am her because she is me. I watched as my past self got beat up by my father. I watched from a corner, crying like a poor, little girl. I was stuck in this wretched memory. 

“Fight back,” I whispered, wishing she would just hurt him, show him who she really was.

Nothing changed. She was pummeled and screamed. His hand collided with her nose and it bent sideways.

“FIGHT BACK,” I screamed, the sound broken and distorted. 

She just crumbled to the floor and her eyes closed, she had fainted. The room glitched, replaying the torment and awful things I had experienced. I crumbled into a ball against the wall of that dark room and cried. 

“Please, please, please,” I begged my 17-year-old self, “Fight back, you’re stronger than I am,”

Then my father and her turned to me and I froze. This was new. This is new.

He walked up to me and put on an evil smirk. “Why would you fight back?”

I screamed back with a desperate intensity that echoed through my whole body. “All I ever wanted was your love! Your approval! G-d damn it, why would you hurt your daughter?! Why did you make me feel like I was worthless and like I wasn’t even human? I JUST WANTED HAPPINESS!” The last few words came out with an anger and intensity I didn't know I had.

I closed my eyes, overwhelmed by the pain of my past, begging for it all to end. And then, when I opened my eyes, it did. I was beneath my Christmas tree in my apartment. A small red ornament hung in front of my face. I was curled up in a ball and bristles brushed against my pajamas. Did I fall asleep? What was that?

Needing to feel sane I whispered to myself, “You are Anna James, you are 27, and you live… alone,” 

And then with a jolt, I found myself back at the entrance of that cursed Christmas night, the groaning door, the eerie silence, and the shattered picture. The torment replayed, and I realized I was trapped in the ongoing nightmare of my worst Christmas ever.