This was a piece I kinda-sorta improvised . . . more or less . . . most likely less. What can I say, aside from "This is what I think of Christmas music"? I don't usually write in first-person, so I thought I'd give it a shot. Feedback is appreciated but, please, bear in mind that I don't plan on doing a whole lot with this -- it was just a random idea.
The velvety voice of Elvis Presley snaked its way from the speakers of my car and, to no avail, attempted to charm my ears. “I’ll have a blue Christmas without you,” he sang. Oh, this was the last thing I needed. With a snarl, my right hand fled from the steering wheel to shut off the radio before he could choke out the second verse. It wasn’t that I hated The King, really -- he wasn’t my favorite performer either, however. Despite the fact that it was Christmas Eve, I was in no condition to deal with one phrase of seasonal music or sappy words . . . and the traffic in which I sat most certainly did not lighten my mood. To make matters worse, it was just barely eleven o’clock in the morning and I was due at my sister’s at twelve o’clock sharp. It took roughly two hours to get there on a good day with little traffic. Given the ******** that sprawled before me, however . . . there was no chance in hell I’d be meeting my older sister’s high expectations. And if you think things couldn’t be any more worse, you’re wrong; I didn’t get my coffee this morning. Yes, I am well aware that I sound like a bitchy teenage girl that owns thirteen cars and has already had too much plastic surgery done. First thing you need to know about me: I am a caffeine addict. If you don’t know what a caffeine addiction is like . . . look for the closest smoker. There aren’t that many differences between the addictions, come to think of it. Essentially, you take away what the addict craves, and you tend to get a good bit of violence out of them . . . not to mention the other painful side-effects. Whatever the case, me without coffee was never a good thing.
12:29 PM
“Well, finally! Come on in, Scar, we’ve been waiting for you for hours!” My older sister groaned, stepping aside so as to let me in. Well, at least she had used my preferred name for once. Scar sounded so much nicer than my full name, Scarlet. Or, at least, it did in my opinion. I didn’t like that she had to exaggerate how long it had taken me to arrive, though. I thought I had done pretty damn good -- I was only half an hour late, thank you very much! “Hey, Roxi, where do you want these bags at?” I inquired, half waving around the presents in my hands as I glanced to my sister over my shoulder and headed inside, awaiting her response. “Er . . . over there should be fine. Just set them over there with the rest and make yourself comfy.” She replied as she locked the door, motioning to a decorated tree barely visible down the hall in the living room. And without another word, she disappeared down the hall, probably headed to the kitchen.
After depositing the gifts beneath the tree and hanging up my coat, I allowed myself a few minutes of rest. Kicking off my shoes, I plopped down onto one of the leather recliners in the living room and leaned back. It was only as the sigh escaped my lips that I realized just how exhausted I was -- swearing at other drivers and trying not to go apeshit was pretty difficult, you know.
My eyes had just begun to close when the sound of laughter and approaching footsteps pried them open once again. Entering the living room was my sister, Roxanne, and her husband, Tarrant. The couple had been together -- or, at least, married -- for a little over five years, now. And, boy, were they stuck in the honeymoon phase. It was disgusting, really, to have to listen to their pet-names and watch them openly display their affection for one another. Roxi liked to claim it was because I was jealous. In truth, however, I think we both knew the truth: I just thought it was disgusting. Ever since I was little the thought of romantic relationships -- never even mind what came out of those! -- had always produced a bit of bile in the back of my throat.
“So, Scar, how have you been? Haven’t seen you since Thanksgiving.” Tarrant began in that haughty voice of his. Ever meet someone that just radiates their superiority the way the sun does its light? Someone that knows just so much more than you and is better at every single thing than you? Well, that was Tarrant. And if that wasn’t enough, his voice was like nails on a chalkboard, to me. I dunno, maybe that was just the lack of caffeine . . . maybe it was just his haughtiness. “That wasn’t that long ago.” I muttered, fighting off the urge to roll my eyes as I turned my head away from the couple. “What was that?” Tarrant inquired, almost daring me to repeat myself. Oh, I simply would have loved to repeat myself! To throw everything in his face, pop all of the balloons on his parade, and watch his world come crashing down! “I’ve been good, and yourself?” I recited, unable to stop the words before they flew away from me. People like Roxanne and Tarrant had a way of wrapping you around their fingers, whether you knew it or not. They could get you to do damn near everything before you even realized you had done it. They say `ask` and you beg. Get the picture?
With that little question, Tarrant and Roxi went on and on about everything they had accomplished over the past few weeks that I would dare dream of doing. Everything from sky-diving to spelunking was on that list. Apparently, that was what rich people did; jump out of perfectly good planes and throw themselves into a hole in the ground. Was it wrong to wish that they had gotten buried in said hole? “You alright, Scar? You seem a little . . . out of it.” Roxi said, after some time. For once, there seemed to be a bit of actual emotion in her voice -- genuine human concern for my well-being! Actually, she was probably more worried about whether she’d have a decent Christmas (Eve) or not. “Yeah, I’m fine. I could use some coffee, though.” I sighed, rubbing my forehead with my right hand. Yup, there was a pretty decent headache coming along, now. As my sister left to fetch me a cup, it took every ounce of strength I had not to snap my fingers and demand that she pick up the pace.
5:00 PM
“You’re the only one that understands.” I found myself muttering, as I pet the smooth coat of Pyewacket. Pyewacket was my sister’s chocolate-point Siamese cat, named after the cat in the movie “Bell, Book, And Candle“. She was rather laid-back, when considering the typical cat personality . . . especially that of a Siamese. Pye was getting old, though. She was about twelve, now -- a little less than half my age. The feline’s bright blue eyes gazed right into mine, almost in an understanding way. It was then that I found a small laugh escape me. The sort of laugh that just comes about all of its own accord, when you come to realize that you may just be a little bit off your rocker. I’d had those laughs before. “Oh, Scarlet. You’re really beginning to go ‘round the bend, huh? Talking to a cat, thinking the cat understands . . . oh, Lord! You’re even talking to yourself, now!” I said in third-person, still laughing ever so slightly. The cat seemed to give me a look which read, “I’m outta here, freak” before sprinting down the hall. Oh, well. It wasn’t the first time something like this had happened -- I’d talked to animals like that, before. Hasn’t everyone?
5:15 PM
“Scar! Dinner!” My sister’s voice echoed up the stairs. Funny. You’d think that, being so rich and all, she could afford to have some sort of intercom installed throughout the house to make situations like this easier on her vocal chords. What did I care, though? Her vocal chords . . . her money . . . not my problem. With a small sigh, I abandoned the considerably comfortable guest room that Roxanne had had arranged for me and headed downstairs.
Why did everything have to be so picture-perfect about my sister’s abode? It looked like the sort of place featured in a magazine . . . no matter what. You could have a bull loose in the place and even it would hesitate to touch the China, for fear of invoking the wrath of the almighty Roxanne. She was a perfectionist, she claimed. To me, though, it seemed more like a case of obsessive-compulsive disorder. You could walk into the house one day and come back the next thinking it was a completely different home. Roxi was always changing the layout and what colors things were; it was enough to make any sane person’s head spin. I suppose that, after growing up with Roxanne, I was either used to it or insane. Which is it, I wonder?
As I entered the dining room, I half expected it to look like the Great Hall from the Harry Potter movies. It didn’t, of course . . . but, it wasn’t too far off. The open room was decorated on every wall with all sorts of holiday items -- garland, postcards and letters, pictures, ornaments, miniature statues . . . everything. Pyewacket was perched on the nearby fireplace, watching those in attendance intently. Admittedly, it was kind of eerie to walk into the dining room and it just be myself and my sister with her husband. Usually, everyone else would be here -- our parents, our aunts and uncles, our nieces, Roxi’s kid . . . everyone. They were all elsewhere, though. Mom and Dad were down in Florida with some old friends, our aunts and uncles were who-knows-where, Roxi’s kid was on some sort of Church thing with a ton of friends, and the nieces were out and about, as was everyone else.
I took my seat to the left of my sister, who sat at one end of the table with Tarrant to her other side. Everything from ham to cookies was scattered about the table like a buffet. Despite being rich, Roxanne preferred to cook everything herself. She claimed it was therapeutic, or some s**t like that. Whatever the case, the holidays had always been an excuse for her to go crazy with the kitchen. It wasn’t that she was a bad cook, or anything . . . but, sometimes, she liked to experiment; Roxanne’s cooking experiments never turned out good.
6:30 PM
With full stomachs and clean dishes, the three of us returned to the living room for a bit of down-time before bed. I was in the recliner I had met with, earlier, while Roxi and Tarrant cuddled on a nearby sofa with Pyewacket curled behind my sister‘s head. Oh, no . . . please, anything but the cuddling! “Something wrong, Scar?” Roxanne questioned, suddenly. Apparently, my expression had betrayed my thoughts. Well, that was embarrassing. “No, I’m fine.” I replied with a small shrug. “Oh, I’m sorry. I keep forgetting. Does this bother you?” Roxi giggled, doing that disgusting Eskimo kiss . . . thing. “Aren’t you a little old for that?” I hissed, averting my eyes. “Aren’t you a little old to still be single?” She challenged, the laughter coming to an abrupt halt. Half in shock, I shot my eyes in her direction. “Seriously, Scar. You’ve been single for . . . how long? I mean, you’ve only had a couple boyfriends here and there -- and only one of them was since high school.” Roxanne teased. Oh, here we go again. “Wait . . . you’re not . . . are you a lesbian?” She added, suddenly, bringing a hand to cover her horrified expression. “What? No! I . . . Roxi, you know I’m just….” “Different?” Tarrant interrupted. I had been about to snap at him when the phone rang. Strange . . . no intercom, yet they still had a landline?
While Tarrant abandoned Roxi and I to answer the phone, you could almost feel the tension in the air between us. I simply refused to look at Roxanne while she appeared to be too busy inspecting her fingernails to be bothered with anything else. I was beyond flabbergasted and irritated, at this point. Of all the things to say to me, Roxanne had picked one of the worst. Why did she have to do that? Why did she always have to make me feel so . . . inferior?
7:00 PM
Tarrant was gone. The person on the phone turned out to be a friend out on some road requesting assistance of some sort. He didn’t say to much and Roxanne and I were too busy being superior to ask. So, what did we do while he was out? Not much . . . just sit there in the silence. Hell, Roxi was almost basking in it.
I was about to head upstairs and tuck in early when my sister decided to speak again. “You alright, Scar? You know I’m only teasing, right?” She said, the human concern seeming to just peek out from behind her monotonous voice. I said nothing and did nothing. Why should I have? She may have been older than me, but that gave her no right to treat me like s**t. Besides, ignoring Roxanne was the best way to get on her nerves. In refusing to acknowledge her presence, you made her feel like the insignificant person she wanted you to feel like . . . I guess. “You know, I’m probably the only person that understands you. And, yet, what do you do? God, Scarlet, you’re such a brat! Why do--” I had to cut her off there. Actually, I had been talking since she said the word `understands` . . . my voice only just then began to raise. “What the hell makes you think you understand me? I’m the brat?! Well, I am oh, so sorry princess, that I can’t be as perfect as you!” I snapped, slowly becoming aware of the fact that my feet were now carrying me toward the stairs.
“Scarlet, where are you going? Oh, come on! This is so typical of you -- run away. That’s all you ever do. It’s what you did when Mom and Dad divorced . . . when Mom got married again . . . when you met the other kids that Dad was a father to.” Roxanne voiced, following after me. “Leave me alone, Roxi.” I hissed as my left foot hit the second step. “Why?” She inquired, grabbing the closest hand so as to prevent me from traveling any further. As I spun around, my hand, with a mind of its own, flew and made contact with my sister’s right cheek; making a beautiful smacking sound as it landed. Needless to say, Roxanne released my hand to touch where she had been struck. Dumbfounded, she stared at me. First, in shock -- about as much shock as I was in. Slowly, but surely, her shock gave way to anger.
7:49 PM
I was so out of it . . . everything happened so quickly. Sitting on the back porch, I glanced nervously inside, half expecting the mortified face of either Tarrant or Roxanne to be pressed to the glass. Even when my eyes met no other face behind the glass, a chill still chased its way down my spine. I had attempted to light a cigarette several times, only to find that my hands simply would not stop shaking. I had attempted to drink a bit of wine only to struggle with the bottle and have it crash to the floor. Nothing would work.
I pulled my knees up under my chin as I sat in the chair, nervously glancing to the door. I wasn’t afraid of what was inside the house so much as what had happened in there . . .
Dead. They were both dead; Roxanne and Tarrant. Roxanne had been the first to go and . . . I don’t even remember how. All I can recall is the sound of glass shattering -- this was before the wine -- muddled by the sound of a scream, mixed with a petrified expression and the overwhelming scent of blood. There had been a thud after that . . . a low, mocking thud.
Tarrant had come home not much longer after that . . . while I was hovering over my sister’s body, unsure of what had happened. One thing led to another, which led to him accusing me, which led to more screaming and another mocking thud.
I had come to realize, by now, that there was a lot of mockery going on at this time; the thuds . . . the staring cat . . . even the blasted music! The cat had been looming around at the time of the murders, and the music . . . Oh, the wretched music. It was that blasted Elvis song that had been on in the car! It just . . . got stuck in my head . . . ? Perhaps the second most tormenting thing (next to the blasted music) was the lack of tears flowing from my eyes. Was I in shock . . . ? Or could I just not cry . . . ?
If there was a God, I was fairly certain that he was laughing at me right about then. Pointing and laughing. If things weren’t chaotic enough, snow began to fall from the sky. While I couldn’t cry, I found myself laughing . . . almost hysterically. I began to figure that if there were a Santa Claus, I certainly wasn’t on his Nice List, despite the fact that a small part of me felt that I should. After all . . . what use were people like Tarrant and Roxanne, anyway? They weren’t serious do-gooders, anyway . . . their deaths were an accident. Yes, an accidental crime of passion! Or . . . whatever.
It was at, about this time, that I became aware of two things. First, Pyewacket was curled in my lap. How long had she been there . . . ? More importantly, how had she gotten there? I glanced back to the door only to find that my suspicions were correct: the door was still shut. I didn’t think much of it, other than I must have brought her out with me for whatever reason. And, second . . . I was, undoubtedly, different.
No, seriously! I had never been fond of people . . . in any real shape or form, come to think of it. Roxanne had interpreted my reaction to things like the separation of our parents as running away. In truth, I hadn’t been all that phased by it. It had just been another day in my life, really. Unfortunate in some ways, but I also learned a bit from it, as well. Like I said before, the thought of romantic relations had always disturbed me. I guess that’s not so natural either, huh? Especially for someone my age.
Hold on . . .
You want to know something odd? I know I’m gonna sound crazy when I say this but, really, what difference does it make now? I think . . . I think that cat might have something to do with all this. No, think about it! I mean . . . it was there all along, wasn’t it? It’s like . . . every time it was around me, I was angry. Did it make me feel angry? I wonder . . . maybe . . .
Nah. That’s just preposterous, isn’t it; a cat making someone murder two people?
As I headed back inside with the cat, I headed to the phone to call for help. Yep . . . time to turn myself in. Nothing really mattered anymore, so why not? It was kind of funny because while the other end of the phone rang and I looked into the window . . . I could swear I saw the reflection of the cat lapping up my sister’s blood . . .
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