Yet Another Christmas Carol

Not this again....

Christmas Eve. Around midnight. The door knocked.

There was no one up except me. So I went to the door and opened it.

It was the creature who was once my imaginary friend, hovering a few feet off the steps, with blood dropping out of the part of him where his ass would be, one drop at a time.

What a surprise.

He intoned what was supposed to be some sort of intimidating howl of rage, intending to scare or intimidate me.

A timid girl would have screamed and shut the door at this point. But- especially now that I am eight- I am not that type of girl.

I demanded silence from him, and he complied.

“Let me guess,” I said. “You have been sent here to teach me the error of my incorrect ways, and you will not rid yourself of me until I have admitted that I have sinned. And you will insist that, for ever more, I live my life according to what many consider to be the “true” meaning of what this night signifies.”

He should have expected this from me. But he seemed not to. Because he stood there for a second, before finally nodding his head.

“Well,” I say, quietly and firmly, “it ain’t gonna happen. Get out of here before I decide to kill you-again.”

I tried to shut the door, but he simply passed through it and stood in front of me again.

“You cretin!” I snapped at him. “Don’t you understand English? I told you that your efforts to try and reform me were not going to happen. Away with you- now!”

“But, Amanda,” he croaked pathetically, addressing me by name, “I’m supposed to do this.”

“Do not try to defy me,” I warned him. “If you did your research about me, as they probably made you do, you probably understand why I was chosen for this treatment.”

He was silent.

“You fail to understand what a farce this all is,” I said. “This entire set-up was invented by a man named Dickens in the 19^th century, as a framework for a short work of literature designed to be entertaining and instructive to the people of his time, and nothing more. However, ever since then, whenever a fictional narrative has a particularly nasty character who needs to be taught a “lesson” of some kind, it inevitably rips off and models itself on Mr. Dickens’ narrative. All of which demonstrates how writers are lazy hacks who prefer to make money stealing other people’s ideas rather than making their own.”

“But….”

“Don’t interrupt me!” I said, shaking a fist at him. “That particular work of literature displays a particularly thick-headed attitude towards morality in some people. Who are pathetic! Just like yourself. Just as your efforts to “entertain” me when I brought you to “life” were such a failure to entertain me that I was forced to terminate your existence. Were you not cast in the image of the one boy on Earth whose presence I can stand for more than a minute, I would have destroyed you much sooner than I did!

“The whole unspoken raison d’etre for this whole event is lost in the mist of time. And thus, this holiday tries to justify itself by being connected to practically every means of making the almighty dollar possible, from November up until now every year, with no cessation. And, in the case of people in my age group, a steady reinforcement and amplification of Fascist attitudes of what “good” behavior is, in order to possibly- possibly, mind you- get one of those soulless products of capitalist production which are hardly worth the material they are produced with! And this happens every damn year!

“Is it any wonder that any of us children have not been driven insane by these insane levels of manipulation of our wants, desires and expectations? Maybe some of us are like that already, and we don’t even know it. I can, at least, account for the sanity of myself.”

Since he still hadn’t moved, I knew I had to intimidate him more seriously. So I whipped out my axe- the gleaming silver axe that’s my pride and joy- and held it with formidable strength above my head.

“Now get out of here, and stay out,” I snapped. “And, should whomever sent you here send you or any of your demon foes here again, or think about it, let him know that I will personally destroy you and him without question!”

That was enough to finally get him to leave. I lowered the axe and held in front of me while I smoothed out my skirt, which had been ruffled in my anger.

“Well,” I mused, “that was easy. Now: where was I?”

Dragging the axe behind me, I walked up the stairs of my house, and prepared to embark upon the murder of the rest of my family, as I had so long desired.

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