An Erotic Bedtime Story
Christmas, my favorite time of the year. For Santa, it wouldn’t make sense to have it any other way. Santa. I hate calling myself that. I always have. Does Madonna call herself Madonna? Does Prince call himself Prince? I suppose they probably do but I just feel odd calling myself a name that has been bestowed upon me by the world’s children and families.
I’m Nicholas. Saint Nick to some. And as I write this letter I’m burdened with a heavy heart. The weight isn’t brought down by you people. For the most part, you’ve made my life a never-ending grand ball where my annual waltz is the highlight of the party.
A glance at the window overlooking the North Pole gazebo presents me with a little joy, seeing the elves play and the bright colorful lights sway in the night breeze. I like hearing the sound of live Christmas songs flowing from the fiddles, trumpets, and snare drums played by the most talented of the elven crowd. They love their music and Jingle Bell Rock is played so often it can get annoying.
I strain my ears and hear the familiar chorus of, “Chestnuts roasting on an open fire…”
It brings me back to my tale. Tale. Tail end I guess would make more sense. The ultimate climax to the Christmas story. The lifting of the load. A climax for Christmas. That’s what you get in this letter.
This is an anvil of sorrow I bear. Its iron-like bulk puts pressure on my shoulders as I watch yet another wife of mine grow old. Marlena. She’s on the bed next to where I sit with this notepad, pen, and candle.
Yes, a candle only seems right for a moment like this. For all the iPads and tablets and cell phones I carry around on Christmas Eve, I never could learn to stomach them. I’m old fashioned I guess and as an old fashioned man, I value the feel of the paper beneath my palm as my hand slides from left to right, carving each letter into the parchment.
I look over at Marlena, the current Mrs. Claus, and see her struggle to breathe. I wish I could take her pain away. I wish I could replace life’s weight with the torture she’s enduring. But I can’t. I never could. See, I’ve had three wives prior to this one and even through so much love and loss, one can never be prepared for a loved one’s last night on earth.
She’ll die tonight. The night before Christmas Eve and Marlena will die. I’ve seen it three times before and each of those times, the cold stillness of the night was different from the usual frigid temperature. It’s like the shadows creep in and darken the atmosphere slightly more on the night of the final goodbye.
I lift my tumbler of Southern Comfort to my lips and take a long pull. This glass is tall and filled more than halfway as I plan to let it burn through my chest, stomach, and legs. I want it to strip all feeling away. And when I’m finally numb to the pain, that’s when I’ll do it.
The shadows dance. Let them dance. Tonight they’ll dance a little longer than usual as I’ve decided to go with her. I cannot do this alone anymore. I just can’t. I’ve tried. I’m worn out and Marlena, even more than the others, gave me a peace, a sense that I wasn’t alone. And to be trapped in a solitary world, this frozen tundra, even with cheerful elves bouncing around all over the place, is a prison I can no longer handle.
So I’ve decided to tell my final story, my true story, of love and loss, tonight.
Oh, how the shadows dance in the candlelight, antagonizing me, daring me, waiting for me. They dance. Like their own final waltz.
My waltz. Oh, how I love to dance.
Chris Genovese takes the genres you love and sets them on fire. This is a Holiday Romance Short that's a good read any time of the year. Get to know St. Nick like you've never known him before. He's not always nice, and when he's not, he's downright naughty. Be prepared for dirty good time.