1A Very Merry Christmas
Snow drifted to the edges of the window, sticking like icing sugar to a gingerbread house. The frosted window pane iced my cheek as I watched time tick by, and the tingling sensation starting from my cheek met with the warming feeling of the hot chocolate nestled safely in my hands. A sudden rush enveloped me, but the foreshadowing of dismay managed to seep in at this moment, mingling with that contentment. Like white buoys, the marshmallows bobbed on the surface of the swirling thick chocolate, soaking up the liquid, making them fat, white blobs of sugar dissolving into the hot mixture. I tentatively raised the cup to my lips, savouring the rich taste of chocolate as it cascaded down my throat, then running my tongue from my full bottom lip to the edge of my mouth, attempting to devour any trace of the sweetness. Sighing, I smiled wistfully to myself and leaned into my cushion, watching as the snow continued to pile up.
I revelled in watching the oven from here, the hot batter of hazelnut and chocolate baking, making my stomach start to growl. The aroma of the cake wafted through the cracks of the oven, filling my nose and causing me to salivate. I couldn't stop moving; impatient at the thought of the cake taking this long till it was ready to be consumed. I swayed gently in tempo to the beat of the music that was escaping through the earphones into the whorl my ear, and attempted to tap the beat against the wall with the tip of my toes.
There was nothing more monotonous, nothing more exasperating, than being trapped with jovial festive decorations adorned in each room, mocking you that this Christmas would ensue with misfortune, because that's all that could really happen. Wasn't it?
My fingers itched as I stared at the glittering red baubles contrast against the silky green ribbons stretched across each of the four walls. I clenched my fist tightly, my knuckles turning white as I saw a glimmer my sister flit to the living-room in a flourish of pink. How could she be so carefree at a time like this? To avoid further annoyance, I crouched down behind the counter and positioned myself in front of the wide-screen of the oven, the only viewer being myself, watching the cake begin to solidify. The wafting aroma of roasted hazelnut and chocolate became stronger as I put my face closer to the oven door, relishing at the idea of a large mouthful of the cake soon—despite the high temperature.
I watched the blinking fluorescent light of the digital clock; it was as if it were winking at me, secretly mocking me for being so incredibly impatient and selfish. A feeling of unease swirled in the pit of my stomach, I felt like retching; even though the house was so lavishly done-up, it had an atmosphere that only the people who resided in it could recognise—of emptiness. The façade of Christmas being able to mask even the slightest wrongs made my fists clench involuntarily. None of them remember him, I thought. None of them remember that there's one less person in the house, one less smiling face when we open the presents and one less warm hug to receive. As I stood up to wipe the welling tear in my eye, I accidentally knocked over my mug which caused it to topple and crash onto the ground. My family was exactly like the pieces of my mug on the floor; though it could be mended, the cracks of imperfection could still be seen and would always remain no matter how much glue you use to stick it back together again.
The swish of my sister's pink dress and the lisp in her words made me realise that she was nearby. Her soft steps echoed, as the lull of Christmas songs played in the background, and she placed her left foot down, spinning on the very tips of her toes then placing her right foot in front of the other and doing the same. The genuine smile that played across her lips made me clench my jaw, almost causing me to grit my teeth together, but I refrained from doing so. She was too naïve to know. I edged away from the door leading to the living room, noticing the snake-like wire leading from the plug in the wall, winding around the back of the table, the counter and then slithering up to meet the phone, standing at the very edge of the table—almost teetering to fall upon floor. I should know. The hours which I've spent on the phone with him are countless ghost-like whispers to my ear. Every word sewed into my memory with translucent thread, to prevent forgetting his voice: the lilt when he's happy and the slow yet compassionate tone he uses when I'm upset. An ache in my chest started up again and my throat constricted. But I refused to cry, earning more pricking needles at the back of my throat and the expansion of the cavity already in my chest.
The phone then rang, startling me out of my state of misery.
"Hello? Is this Mr or Mrs Price? I—I think you better come down here to the hospital…"