12-01-2015, 12:02 AM
f a r r e n
Soft light from the nightlight illuminated his room, the fish in the tank by the window swimming peacefully as he slept, their shadows swimming on the wall behind them. There is moonlight streaming in from his window, a tree brushing softly against the frosty glass. It is quiet, and the whole world is asleep.
Mostly.
He wakes and does not know why; sleep crusts the corners of his eyes, his hair tousled and sticking up from sleep. He blinks, clearing his eyes, a yawn stretching out his mouth. He is warm and sleepy, young enough to carry the blind confidence the young do. His room is warm and cozy, and he wants to curl back up under his favorite blanket and fall back asleep. He is moments from sleep, snuggled back under the quilt his mama made for him, covered with patches of special fabric she said would protect him. But he is awake enough to hear the twinkling of bells, and he immediately shoots upright, eyes wide with realization - Santa's sleigh is covered in the gentle-sounding bells, and it is Christmas, and he is awake and could that actually be Santa? He tosses the blankets from his footie-pajama'd legs, grasping the quilt in his hand as he pushes himself out of bed.
Mama always told him stories about how Santa wouldn't come if he was awake - Santa was good enough to know if he was up! - but he couldn't resist a peek. Santa couldn't possibly know if he peeked, right? So he tiptoed over to the window and peered through to the white space beneath the tree, searching for the marks of the reindeer in the immaculate snow. He could hear the bells, they were growing louder, but he couldn't see anything outside.
And just as fast as the bells had sounded, they stopped.
A pout tugged at his lips - suppose Mama had been right? - and he turned, reluctantly to get back into bed. He froze just as quickly as he had turned, his blood running cold. He had heard just as many stories about the Grinch, about how he had hated Christmas but had turned out to be just fine in the end. This Grinch, this...monstrosity, was not the fluffy green man from the movies. This was devil, incarnate, a yellowed smile stretching across his lips. Small fingers curled tightly around the quilt, praying that his Mama had been right about it saving him as the monster approached. He was frozen in place, fear contorting his features and widening his eyes, his knuckles whiter than the new-fallen snow outside his room. One step closer and he screamed, the monster letting out a noise that shook him to his core, making him cringe and moan in pain.
He knew nothing as adrenaline took over, his legs pumping has he carried himself out the door and down the hall, crying for his parents but receiving no response. His quilt was wrapped around his arm, his hand gripping the stair railing desperately as he fled the monster, the Grinch, footfalls like thunder echoing through the otherwise silent home. Laughter surrounded him, edged with something sinister, and he swore he saw eyes watching him, saw hands grabbing for his ankles, for his clothes, his quilt.
Terror drove him as he slipped into the living room, stopping dead in his tracks at the sight before him; little monsters, little devils, were tearing apart the tree, the presents, destroying both memories and hard work from his parents and himself, tears spilling down his cheeks as he felt the overwhelming pressure of being alone. He could hear sounds from above, the thundering steps as the monster approached a room, and he could hear screams and silence just as quickly, the laughter surrounding him again, and he couldn't take this, he was only a kid!
And suddenly, he refocused on what was before him, to the little demons devouring memories to come and memories to cherish, to find them watching him, with fanged smiles twisting at their bloodied mouths. A whimper escaped his lips as he fled again, gathering his quilt tightly in his arms as he escaped into the kitchen and into the pantry, shutting the door with trembling fingers. He tried to barricade the door with boxes, with a broom, with a step-stool he used to get the cookies from the top shelf, before huddling on the ground, pressing deep into the corner, darkness surrounding him as he inhaled the comforting scent of his quilt, of his mother, and suddenly he was crying again, tears streaming down his cheeks as he hid his face in the soft fabric. He could hear them outside, tearing apart the kitchen, looking for him, the thunder approaching once again as the monster came back.
He is only a child, scared and alone, with a quilt to serve him comfort - Christmas had been his favorite, but this would stay for him for years to come if he lived, this pantry the only thing saving him, and he didn't know if it would live up to the task.