Happy Holidays
Oct 10, 2007 15:05:16 GMT -6
Post by Matthias on Oct 10, 2007 15:05:16 GMT -6
The devilishly cheery holiday music fizzed through the loudspeakers, sounding a dirge over the scene of destruction. Upended snowmen, pieces of plastic reindeer, were all that remained of a pleasant mall display of Christmastime celebrations. Amidst the debris, one man struggled, desperately clinging to his rapidly fading life. A crimson trail told all of his progress, showing that his struggles had amounted to a few yards. A few painful yards, that were costing far more than they should. Groaning, the man reached out with a bloody hand, clutching onto a piece of ceramic snowman. He gathered energy, and pulled, teeth gritting against the searing pain. The exertion bought him a few feet, a few precious feet. The man slumped to the floor, chest heaving. Normally, it wouldn’t take this much effort.
Alan Weston had played college ball, played halfback in fact. He prided himself on keeping himself in that trim shape, even after so many years. Years, years that piled up, one on top of another. College drifted away, replaced by a family, as it should be. Family…
“Daddy, have I been a good girl?” the cherubic, golden-haired angel asked from her position on Alan’s lap. Smiling down at his daughter, Alan stroked her hair lovingly.
“Well, let’s see…” he mused, moving the hand to stroke his chin in a thoughtful manner. “What about that time you pulled Veronica East’s hair?”
“Oh,” Holly, his sweet daughter paused for a few moments, “but she really deserved it!”
“Should you have done it?” asked the father, arching his eyebrow.
“No,” Holly admitted, burying her head into her father’s sweater. Once again Alan gave into the urge to stroke her head, marveling at the head of golden hair. A trait she’d gotten from her beautiful mother.
“I think that Santa’s willing to overlook some things,” Alan assured her. Blinking, bleary eyes, a warm chocolaty brown color, met his, hope shining through.
“Really?” she asked, sniffing. Smiling again, Alan nodded.
“I don’t know,” Holly protested. “I did a lot of bad stuff…”
“Oh, it wasn’t that much,” her father interjected, noting how they’d switched sides in the argument.
“Maybe… we could ask Santa!” she squealed, perking up. Alan rolled his eyes, staring at the clock. Digital red numbers informed him that it happened to be three in the afternoon. Remembering that it was Christmas Eve afternoon, he did the calculations. They should be able to make it to the mall Santa and back before Marjorie made it home from work.
“I suppose, go get your coat,” as soon as the words left his mouth, Holly shot off, squealing with delight.
A cough sounded; its echo cutting through the buzzing music. Alan shook his head, trying to clear out excess thoughts. The clearing brought forth another interesting tidbit, his cell phone. A constant attachment to every grown American, the cell phone allowed him to contact anyone, anywhere. Where had his gone? Groaning, he rose a few inches, trying to get a view. He’d been thrown against a wall, and the impact had sent the phone, which had been clipped to his belt, flying into the distance. The question still remained: where had it landed? Finally, he spotted the handheld device, lying on top of a rather large woman’s body. Her stillness gave away her condition. Unlike Alan, she had not survived ground zero. Heaving to his elbows, Alan began army crawling to the device, praying.
“Daddy, daddy, hurry!” squealed Holly, burst from Alan’s beat-up Sedan with the energy all children possessed. Alan quickly exited the vehicle, moving around to grab onto the small hand.
“Remember, don’t run off, and look both ways before crossing,” he reminded his eager daughter. Nodding, she took off, leading him by the hand. He let her lead, her determination blazing the trail before them. Last minute shoppers plugged the mall’s entrance, and it took a good deal of squirming to burst through the clot, into the mall itself. Like most city malls, the building spawned over an impressive area. Clothing stores ruled over much of that territory, with other stores selling the conviencies of society breaking the monotony. Squatting in the center of it all was a garish holiday display.
Alan and Holly took their place at the end of an obscenely long line, full of screaming children and desperate parents. Holly’s behavior impressed her father, as she stood patiently, quietly swinging her father’s hand. Leaning over, Alan tried to estimate about how long it would take them to reach the Big Man himself. Several dozen people stood before them, lined up on the cheap red carpet. Teenagers dressed as elves let them in a child at a time, allowing the squealing children access to Santa’s lap. His earlier estimate, getting home before his wife left work at five, was a pipe dream. He’d be lucky to get home before supper.
Oh well, he’d promised Holly she’d get to see Santa; they’d have to wait.
It amazed Alan that such a small distance could seem so insurmountable. Uninjured, he could have made it to the phone in seconds. As it was, the painful crawl took several minutes. When he finally reached the rotund woman, he lunged for the phone. It slipped down the woman’s impressive stomach, landing on the floor in front of her. If he were to reach it now, he would have to hug around her. Gritting his teeth against the inevitable pain, he pushed himself forward, fingers flailing. He felt the familiar plastic, and he desperately clung to the familiarity. Slumping back onto his side, he raised the phone, checking the screen.
It was out of energy.
Cursing himself for forgetting to put in on the charger, he let his arm drop. Once again, he heard that echoing cough, only this time, it sounded closer. Straining, he turned, finally seeing the source…
Finally, Alan could see the end. Elves beckoned him and his daughter up onto Santa’s platform. At this time, he let go of her small hand, letting her take a running leap onto the unfortunate Santa’s lap. To his credit, he barely grunted, and then beamed down at the girl.
“Well, hello there little girl,” he cooed, in the universal Santa voice.
“Hello, Mr. Santa Claus,” replied Holly, following up by giving Santa a quick peck on the cheek. A deep belly laugh slowly bubbled out of the elderly man, a result of the girl’s affection.
“So, what’s your name?” he asked.
“Holly Weston, sir,” she answered. Alan could tell she wanted to get through all the formality, but she remembered his lessons about being rude to grown-ups. She’d definitely earned the toys waiting under the evergreen at home.
“Well, Holly, have you been a good girl?” asked Santa. No one would get to hear Holly’s answer, as suddenly a shout rang out across the throng. Alan couldn’t make out the words, but he could see where everyone else was looking. A young man barreled through the crowd, making his way to Santa’s platform. Alan glanced over to the teenage elves, wondering if this was a friend of theirs. Judging by their bewildered looks, they were just as confused as he was.
The young man reached the platform, desperate eyes darting around the crowd. He looked as though he hadn’t eaten for days, and had this crazed gleam in his eyes, something Alan had seen before.
“Die American scum!” shouted the youth, launching towards Santa and…
Holly, the cough came from Holly. Somehow, his daughter had managed to survive being at the site of the explosion that had done so much damage. She lay there a few feet from her father, though she no longer appeared as energetic.
Blood clung to her green sweater, the match to Alan’s own. Most of her beautiful hair had been burned off in the initial blast, and the heat had blistered her rosy cheeks. Coughs came out of cracked lips, and droplets of blood splattered the ground. Where a charming little girl had been only a few minutes ago, a devastated wretch remained.
“Holly?” Alan croaked, desperate for a response.
“Da…da…daddy?” the small voice rasped out of the minuscule body. Sobbing, Alan scrambled to be next to his daughter.
“Daddy’s here,” he told her, reaching out to hold her hand. Several more coughs came from the small body, preventing her from responding, finally, a wheezy message escape.
“Daddy… was I… a good…”
“Yes, oh yes,” Alan assured her, squeezing the hand. “You were a good girl, Holly.”
Later, he couldn’t remember how long he lay there, holding her hand. Eventually, help arrived…
Alan Weston had played college ball, played halfback in fact. He prided himself on keeping himself in that trim shape, even after so many years. Years, years that piled up, one on top of another. College drifted away, replaced by a family, as it should be. Family…
“Daddy, have I been a good girl?” the cherubic, golden-haired angel asked from her position on Alan’s lap. Smiling down at his daughter, Alan stroked her hair lovingly.
“Well, let’s see…” he mused, moving the hand to stroke his chin in a thoughtful manner. “What about that time you pulled Veronica East’s hair?”
“Oh,” Holly, his sweet daughter paused for a few moments, “but she really deserved it!”
“Should you have done it?” asked the father, arching his eyebrow.
“No,” Holly admitted, burying her head into her father’s sweater. Once again Alan gave into the urge to stroke her head, marveling at the head of golden hair. A trait she’d gotten from her beautiful mother.
“I think that Santa’s willing to overlook some things,” Alan assured her. Blinking, bleary eyes, a warm chocolaty brown color, met his, hope shining through.
“Really?” she asked, sniffing. Smiling again, Alan nodded.
“I don’t know,” Holly protested. “I did a lot of bad stuff…”
“Oh, it wasn’t that much,” her father interjected, noting how they’d switched sides in the argument.
“Maybe… we could ask Santa!” she squealed, perking up. Alan rolled his eyes, staring at the clock. Digital red numbers informed him that it happened to be three in the afternoon. Remembering that it was Christmas Eve afternoon, he did the calculations. They should be able to make it to the mall Santa and back before Marjorie made it home from work.
“I suppose, go get your coat,” as soon as the words left his mouth, Holly shot off, squealing with delight.
A cough sounded; its echo cutting through the buzzing music. Alan shook his head, trying to clear out excess thoughts. The clearing brought forth another interesting tidbit, his cell phone. A constant attachment to every grown American, the cell phone allowed him to contact anyone, anywhere. Where had his gone? Groaning, he rose a few inches, trying to get a view. He’d been thrown against a wall, and the impact had sent the phone, which had been clipped to his belt, flying into the distance. The question still remained: where had it landed? Finally, he spotted the handheld device, lying on top of a rather large woman’s body. Her stillness gave away her condition. Unlike Alan, she had not survived ground zero. Heaving to his elbows, Alan began army crawling to the device, praying.
“Daddy, daddy, hurry!” squealed Holly, burst from Alan’s beat-up Sedan with the energy all children possessed. Alan quickly exited the vehicle, moving around to grab onto the small hand.
“Remember, don’t run off, and look both ways before crossing,” he reminded his eager daughter. Nodding, she took off, leading him by the hand. He let her lead, her determination blazing the trail before them. Last minute shoppers plugged the mall’s entrance, and it took a good deal of squirming to burst through the clot, into the mall itself. Like most city malls, the building spawned over an impressive area. Clothing stores ruled over much of that territory, with other stores selling the conviencies of society breaking the monotony. Squatting in the center of it all was a garish holiday display.
Alan and Holly took their place at the end of an obscenely long line, full of screaming children and desperate parents. Holly’s behavior impressed her father, as she stood patiently, quietly swinging her father’s hand. Leaning over, Alan tried to estimate about how long it would take them to reach the Big Man himself. Several dozen people stood before them, lined up on the cheap red carpet. Teenagers dressed as elves let them in a child at a time, allowing the squealing children access to Santa’s lap. His earlier estimate, getting home before his wife left work at five, was a pipe dream. He’d be lucky to get home before supper.
Oh well, he’d promised Holly she’d get to see Santa; they’d have to wait.
It amazed Alan that such a small distance could seem so insurmountable. Uninjured, he could have made it to the phone in seconds. As it was, the painful crawl took several minutes. When he finally reached the rotund woman, he lunged for the phone. It slipped down the woman’s impressive stomach, landing on the floor in front of her. If he were to reach it now, he would have to hug around her. Gritting his teeth against the inevitable pain, he pushed himself forward, fingers flailing. He felt the familiar plastic, and he desperately clung to the familiarity. Slumping back onto his side, he raised the phone, checking the screen.
It was out of energy.
Cursing himself for forgetting to put in on the charger, he let his arm drop. Once again, he heard that echoing cough, only this time, it sounded closer. Straining, he turned, finally seeing the source…
Finally, Alan could see the end. Elves beckoned him and his daughter up onto Santa’s platform. At this time, he let go of her small hand, letting her take a running leap onto the unfortunate Santa’s lap. To his credit, he barely grunted, and then beamed down at the girl.
“Well, hello there little girl,” he cooed, in the universal Santa voice.
“Hello, Mr. Santa Claus,” replied Holly, following up by giving Santa a quick peck on the cheek. A deep belly laugh slowly bubbled out of the elderly man, a result of the girl’s affection.
“So, what’s your name?” he asked.
“Holly Weston, sir,” she answered. Alan could tell she wanted to get through all the formality, but she remembered his lessons about being rude to grown-ups. She’d definitely earned the toys waiting under the evergreen at home.
“Well, Holly, have you been a good girl?” asked Santa. No one would get to hear Holly’s answer, as suddenly a shout rang out across the throng. Alan couldn’t make out the words, but he could see where everyone else was looking. A young man barreled through the crowd, making his way to Santa’s platform. Alan glanced over to the teenage elves, wondering if this was a friend of theirs. Judging by their bewildered looks, they were just as confused as he was.
The young man reached the platform, desperate eyes darting around the crowd. He looked as though he hadn’t eaten for days, and had this crazed gleam in his eyes, something Alan had seen before.
“Die American scum!” shouted the youth, launching towards Santa and…
Holly, the cough came from Holly. Somehow, his daughter had managed to survive being at the site of the explosion that had done so much damage. She lay there a few feet from her father, though she no longer appeared as energetic.
Blood clung to her green sweater, the match to Alan’s own. Most of her beautiful hair had been burned off in the initial blast, and the heat had blistered her rosy cheeks. Coughs came out of cracked lips, and droplets of blood splattered the ground. Where a charming little girl had been only a few minutes ago, a devastated wretch remained.
“Holly?” Alan croaked, desperate for a response.
“Da…da…daddy?” the small voice rasped out of the minuscule body. Sobbing, Alan scrambled to be next to his daughter.
“Daddy’s here,” he told her, reaching out to hold her hand. Several more coughs came from the small body, preventing her from responding, finally, a wheezy message escape.
“Daddy… was I… a good…”
“Yes, oh yes,” Alan assured her, squeezing the hand. “You were a good girl, Holly.”
Later, he couldn’t remember how long he lay there, holding her hand. Eventually, help arrived…