You Give Christmas A Bad Name

You Give Christmas a Bad Name

Lex Silvas

I love Christmas. That time of year when the cold cuts like a blade and the wind seems to laugh at our skin, reminding us that the world can be cruel, and that wicked people deserve punishment. That is why I, Charlotte O’Connor, am on this flight from Boston to New England. I am going to meet my sister Emily and help her take vengeance upon her boyfriend’s rotten family, who cast her out to a hotel and even pressured the precious Ewan Stone into ending things with her.

Last night, Emily called me in tears. Her voice trembled like glass about to shatter. She begged me to come there and help her, for she had left her documents at the parents’ house of that brute, and needs to retrieve them before vanishing back to New York. She swore she wanted no more unnecessary quarrels over foolish things — said she was trying to change, that she only needed her things so she could leave.

But I am not coming to negotiate peace. I am coming to set their Christmas ablaze. Whoever makes my sister cry deserves to see their tree lights burn along with their illusions.

The plane has not yet taken off. I look out the window and see the reflection of the tarmac half-buried in snow, the beacons of the ground crew vehicles blinking like mechanical fireflies. The smell of fuel seeps into the air, mixed with the cheap perfume of someone sitting two rows behind. An elderly woman approaches my seat, skin marked by time, eyes grave.

“Is this seat taken?” she asks.

“It is,” I answer without hesitation. “My hatred needs extra room.”

She arches her eyebrows, surprised.

“Are you some kind of madwoman?” she asks.

“What is your name?” I retort, staring her down. “It does not matter. Unless you wish to be tied to the nose of the plane, get out of here.”

She takes note of my hostility, draws back, and hurries away with quick steps. I smile, satisfied. The metallic clang of the doors shutting echoes down the aisle, and the airplane thrums like a beast about to wake. Vengeance. There is nothing finer at Christmas. Ho ho… death. Perhaps not quite that, but a criminal fire would still be a fine beginning. Good thing I always know how to get gasoline and matches.

The flight from Boston to New England lasted a little over three hours, yet to me it felt like an eternity. The constant drone of the engines was like a drum beating inside my head, and every jolt of turbulence reminded me I was heading straight into war. When I finally landed, the cold welcomed me like a slap to the face, frigid air rushing into my lungs and burning deep within.

I waste no time. I hail a cab and head straight for the hotel where Emily is staying. The lobby smells of stale coffee and damp carpet, and the yellowed lamps cast the place in a light of utter neglect. I take the stairs two at a time, ignoring the elevator, feeling the weight of snow still clinging to my coat.

When I open the door, there she is. My little sister Emily, perched on the edge of the bed, clutching a pillow as though it were her last defense against the world. Her red hair pulled back in a careless tangle, eyes swollen and raw, skin pale as cracked porcelain. She looks smaller than I remember, as though she had shrunken under the weight of her own hurt.

I step inside without knocking. The scent of cheap perfume hanging in the stale air hits me, but none of that matters. Emily lifts her gaze, and for a moment I see in her the fragility of a lost child.

— I’m here — I say, my voice steady, almost sharp.

She lets out a breath that sounds half relief, half shame, and stands slowly. When she wraps her arms around me, I feel her trembling against me. I know it is not fear—not really. It is rage held down too long. I hold her tight, as if I could shield her from the world crushing her beneath its heel.

In that moment I understand: I have not come only to comfort her or keep her in check. I have come to set fire. To burn their Christmas down to ash. Emily needs me. And I will not fail her.

She tells me everything—every sordid detail of what those people did to her. They told her she was “merely” an editorial assistant at New York Mags, as if her work meant less, as if she herself had no worth. They mocked her red hair, bright as flame, saying it made her look like a witch. And at dinner—the final humiliation—they seated her at the children’s table, laughing, saying she was “not family.” Every word she spoke made my blood boil hotter.

All Emily wanted was to gather her things and vanish from this place. But I had other plans.

— I just need to collect my belongings and then we’ll leave this wretched place as fast as we can — she says, weeping, her voice fraying.

— Never fear, little sister — I tell her, firm and steady. — I shall go and fetch them for you. You need never set eyes on those people again.

— They will be cruel to you — she warns. — You must keep your temper in check when you are with them.

— Have no fear — I say, smiling, a glint lighting my eyes. — I know very well how to take care of myself.

I leave my bag in her room and set out for the address she gave me. When I arrive, I see it: a great imposing house, the kind one finds in an upscale suburb. The cab pulls away and I walk up the drive. The façade is draped in extravagant Christmas decorations—lights winking in every hue, garlands strung about every window. And there, front and center, stands a towering inflatable Grinch, overblown and luminous, staring back at me with that wide false grin. Hideous.

But guess who has come to ruin their Christmas? A redheaded Grinch.

I slide the keys from my coat pocket and fit them between my fingers, like small metal claws. The biting wind stings my face, yet all I feel is the fury driving me. I walk straight up to that inflatable Grinch—planted bold upon their lawn, huge and absurd, grinning as if it mocked me.

Without hesitation I drive the pointed tips of those keys deep into its green plastic flank. The sound is sharp—a muffled snap—and then the air rushes out in a high, shrill whine. Before my eyes the Grinch sags, collapsing fast, its grotesque shape melting away until it is nothing more than a heap of crumpled fabric upon the grass. I smile. It feels as though I have just torn the breath out of their precious Christmas display.

Heart pounding, I mount the front steps. Each footfall strikes heavy against the wood—a prelude to the storm I bring with me. I rap upon the door, again and again, impatient, each blow echoing through the house like a warning: their Christmas is about to change forever.

— I’m coming, I’m coming! — a woman’s voice calls out, before the door swings open.

She stands there, middle-aged, wearing a faded blue dressing gown, hair wild and unkempt, as though she has only just risen from bed. Her face bears the marks of sleep and irritation both; her eyes sweep over me from head to toe, measuring, seeking to know who I am.

— Usually carolers come in groups — she says, her mouth twisting into a sneer. — And they aren’t redheads.

— Usually old hags comb their hair before opening the door — I reply, unblinking.

Her hand flies self-consciously to her hair, stung.

— And who, exactly, are you? — she demands.

— Someone come to collect my sister’s things.

She lets out a short, sharp laugh—derision, pure and simple.

— Ah. So you’re “Firelock’s” sister — she says.

— It runs in the family — I tell her, holding her gaze. — Unlike your sour disposition—which seems to spring from nowhere but a complete lack of decency.

She arches her brows, taken aback by my sharpness.

— Quick tongue. Impressive — she says. — Go round to the back. I’ll hand them to you through the kitchen door.

She tries to shut the door in my face, but I hold it firm and stand my ground.

— And what is wrong with this door right here? — I say, meeting her stare. — I am certain there is ample space for you to pass them through quite comfortably.

Her eyes narrow, anger flashing.

— You would not prefer to come inside, then? — she says. — I should hate for the neighbors to think I am taking in strays.

— I was beginning to fear you would never ask.

Her gaze drifts past me to the lawn. She sees the Grinch sagging slowly, deflating upon the grass.

— What has happened to my Grinch? — she demands.

— Perhaps he simply grew weary of looking at your face.

I step across the threshold, head held high, unbowed. Already I see how it is here: show one hint of weakness, and they will tear you apart alive. And I have not come to be the prey of madwomen.

In the hallway stands a great porcelain vase, painted over with gilded patterns. She closes the door behind me and gestures sharply toward it.

— I shall fetch your sister’s things. Stand there—and do not touch that vase. It is a family heirloom — she says.

The moment she turns her back I step forward and shove it hard with my foot. The sound is deafening—the porcelain shattering into a thousand shards across the floor. She spins around, eyes wide with horror.

— You lunatic! — she screams. — I told you to be careful!

— I do beg your pardon — I say, feigning innocence. — I could have sworn you told me to give it a push.

At that moment Ewan appears—tall, hair combed far too neatly, wearing a ridiculous Christmas sweater. Behind him stands an older man, his father, rigid and severe.

— What on earth is going on in here? — Ewan demands.

— This madwoman has just broken my grandmother’s vase! — the mother shrieks, dropping to her knees amid the shards.

— Your mother has lost her wits, I see — I say, pressing a hand to my chest in mock alarm. — She hurled that vase to the floor herself and now seeks to blame me for it. Emily did warn me she was quite unwell.

The father frowns, deeply perplexed.

— Is this true, my dear? — he asks his wife.

— Of course it is not true! — she screams.

— Really, I believe you ought to consider placing her in care — I say, reaching into my handbag. — I might even have a brochure for such a place right here.

— Mother, please step away from the glass — Ewan says, moving to help her. Then he turns to me. — Charlotte. How is Emily?

— She is well. She only wishes to have her things returned.

— I must speak with her. My family—they meant no real harm. It was all meant in jest. Surely that is not so grave an offense.

Before I may answer, two young women enter the room. One is slight, with short hair and a look of bold defiance, standing straight and unyielding. The other is taller, hair falling long and loose, her expression more reserved yet no less curious.

The short-haired one meets my gaze and laughs aloud.

— Good heavens — she cries. — The redheads are multiplying!

— And you must be Rachel — I say, stepping forward as if to embrace her. — My sister has told me all about you.

As my arms close around her, I slip a piece of chewing gum firmly into her hair. She feels it at once.

— What have you put in my hair? — she cries, clutching at it. — Is this—chewing gum?

She struggles to pull it free, calling to the other girl for help, while I stand calmly by, watching them draw apart—angry, flustered, and afraid.

— Enough! — Ewan commands, raising his voice. — None of you is to lay a hand on Charlotte. I know her well enough to say this: she will suffer none of your foolishness. So stop behaving like idiots, all of you.

— She put gum in my hair! — Rachel wails.

— Come—I shall cut it free — the other girl says, already pulling Rachel away by the arm.

— Everyone—into the parlor, now — Ewan orders. — You too, Charlotte.

— I am going nowhere with any of you — I tell him. — I intend only to collect my sister’s belongings and leave.

Ewan sighs, striving to keep his patience.

— Charlotte, please. I think it plain we have all gotten off on the wrong foot — he says.

I smile, showing my teeth.

— I carry a knife, should any of you think to try anything — I say pleasantly.

— Of course you do — Ewan replies, gesturing for me to follow.