Christmas Wishes

By Amethyst Turner

I wish I had a family

I wish I had a friend

I know how I started

So I know how I'll end

I wish I wasn't hidden

In this bedroom all alone

I wish I hadn't fallen for

The silence to which I'm prone

I wish I wasn't worthless

To this sad degree

But if I wasn't worthless

Then I just wouldn't be Me

XXX

Life dragged on, money got tighter, days became duller, and nights became bloodier. Libby hardly noticed her bruises anymore.

Well, she noticed them, but she felt nothing about them. She had accepted them as a part of her. Richard and his drunken rages were a piece of her life now, and she realized that she couldn't change that. So she treated those bruises like regrettable tattoos and coexisted with them.

She couldn't help but feel jealous of Amethyst at times. Richard never hurt her. He did nothing but dote on her and buy her presents they couldn't afford. He loved the girl. No one loved Libby.

Christmas was the final straw.

They were behind on the bills, in debt to the landlord for several missed payments for the rent of the house, and were scrounging around in the couch cushions for every last penny they could find. Yet, on Christmas morning, she awoke to find a stocking full of presents for Amethyst.

There was no tree, they couldn't afford it. So why was this here? Aimee and Richard were still asleep, so Libby allowed herself to rummage through the stocking.

Toys, candy, a little book about christmas elves -- she couldn't control herself. One by one, the objects thwacked against the opposite wall, falling to the ground, each with it's own unique note. When the stocking was empty, Libby reached for the desk lamp on the dresser and hurtled it across the room. It crashed to the ground, sparks flying, then fire. Flames.

She felt sick with hatred. Everything, she decided. Everything must go. Into the flames, into abyss, she didn't care. She didn't want this house, this life, this family, everything must go.

Feeding the flames, Libby's hands shook. Tears streamed from her eyes. A framed picture of her parents, a remote that controlled a TV they had sold, a seedy pillow from the couch. The fire grew, catching on the curtains.

The clock read five fifteen. Amethyst began to cry. She heard Richard's footsteps upstairs. Could he smell smoke? She didn't care. A baby blanket, a tiny shoe. Everything must go. Everything.

"What the fuck?" Richard's voice roared. She couldn't see him. All there was, for her, was the fire that was washing her life away. "What are you doing?! Stop!"

The fire spread rapidly, clawing toward her with flickering fingers. But Libby was not afraid. This creature, this fire she had created, was not there to hurt her. It was there to take her pain away.

Water. Foam. Sputtering. Sparks.

Libby felt like screaming. No! No, that's mine! Richard was destroying her fire. What was he doing? Couldn't he see how much it--

She snapped back into reality, suddenly and completely.

Sinking down onto the couch, Libby began to cry.

XXX

When Christmas was over, things didn't get better. The wall across from the front door was damaged -- Richard had to hire a contractor to fix it. He stayed angry about it, it seemed, for a long time. Whenever he hit her, Libby reminded herself of the hole in the wall.

On Amethyst's birthday, she awoke to find Richard downstairs in the kitchen. It was a Saturday, six ten, six fifteen AM. Wrapped in her dressing robe, Libby yawned into the room, rubbing her eyes. What are you doing? She didn't have the courage to question him.

Looking around the counters, she was able to deduce what he was trying to cook. A cake for Amethyst. Of course. She barely hid her eyeroll, slinking across the kitchen to start a pot of coffee.

Richard, she realized, was sober. Usually, this would make her happy, but today, she just felt a deep sense of envy. When did he ever get sober to bake her a cake? What made Amethyst so special?

He was in a good mood. Twining his arms around her waist, Richard kissed her cheek and then went back to his baking. Libby felt the angry heat rushing to her face. Then she remembered the hole in the wall. Taking a deep breath, she walked into the living room. They could not afford her angry rages.

Amethyst was much too big for the drawer by now. Instead, she slept in a little cardboard box Libby had set aside downstairs, like a dog. Aimee didn't care, so neither did Libby. Sometimes she would wake up in the middle of the night screaming because she'd seen a rat or a bug from down there, but other than that, she raised no objection. Now, when she needed quiet, Libby shut her away in the kitchen's locking cupboard rather than closing the drawer.

Libby sat down on the couch across from the filled in hole. You could hardly tell what had taken place, except for the curtains which they had still neglected to replace. Other than those, the room looked just the same as it had before. But the incident had left its mark on Libby.

She couldn't stop thinking about how close to death she had come. How close she had been, without caring. She'd wanted to go. She was ready.

Which begged the question, why hadn't she killed herself yet?

Libby spent every hour of every day with this question lurking in the back of her mind. What was she living for? Not Richard, certainly. Not Amethyst. Not her parents, her family, not her friend (what friends?). She couldn't pinpoint any specific reason for her continued existence, aside from the fact that she was afraid.

What laid beyond life, exactly? Was it adjacent to death, a simple matter of thin lines? Or was it worlds and worlds to the other side -- was it even more suffering, even more pain? What if it was only darkness, blankness, oblivion?

Would that really be so bad?

Hell, she supposed, was why she chose to continue living. Her parents were Catholic, but Libby was never exactly sure if she believed in god herself. Still, the prospect of Heaven and Hell haunted her. Surely, God knew about her attempts to murder Amethyst? Surely he knew how she'd hoped the little rat would shrivel and die in the fire she had created.

And what was she going to do? Kneel at the feet of the Almighty and say, "Oops"?

No, no. "Oops" implied a mistake. No, her attempts on Aimee's life had been very, very deliberate. There was no accident.

The smell of smoke arose from the kitchen, worming its way into her train of thought. That fire she had created. The fires of hell. The cleansing flames of purgatory.

The idea of purgatory scared her as well. Was there a such thing as eternity in purgatory?

If there was, this was it. The constant in between.

XXX

I'm dreaming of a white Christmas

Just like the ones I used to know

Where the treetops glisten

and children listen

To hear sleigh bells in the snow

I'm dreaming of a white Christmas

With every Christmas card I write

May your days be merry and bright

And may all your Christmases be white

-White Christmas, Bing Crosby