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Christmas is my least favourite time of the year

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Christmas is my least favourite time of the year.

This is the time of year when my days and nights become nothing but terror, horrifying me from within as if it were all happening again, right in front of me, with nothing I could do to stop it, and that feeling made my skin crawl.

As soon as this time of year returns, my days become voids of darkness, and my peaceful nights transform into dreadful beasts, making me shudder every time I close my eyes.

Christmas Eve, the day that is supposed to bring delight, happiness, and blessings to others, was the day that I received this curse for the rest of my life.

On this day, people hear children singing carols, hear church bells, smell the pleasant flavours of many desserts, and buy many gifts for their loved ones.

But for me, this day offered me a present for my own existence in the form of the burden of self-blame.

Blame for my sister's death.

Every day, I considered how she may have been saved if I had been bold enough to help her, or whether none of this would have occurred if I had been cautious enough.

All I could hear were her screams as she died, my mother's cries that prevented me from approaching her, and the sound of my own heart throbbing in my ears as I witnessed hers stop beating in front of my eyes, taking away her breaths and life slowly and brutally.

"Leave me! Leave me, mom!"

"Stay right there, Nick...."

"Nicolas, I can't let you go...."

"......my sister.... Please mom, please let me go!"

"My brother... Je t'aime, Nick, I will always love you..."

A harsh gasp escapes my mouth as I open my eyes again, breathing as if my life depended on it, while the pitch-blackness of my room in front of me greets me. It was past midnight. Only the sound of the breeze resonating inside my room's walls convinced me that those voices were from my past. A long, far-behind past of mine.

However, it didn't help with the tightness in my chest or the roaring of my heart in my ears.

Sweat trickled down my forehead in such a way that it seemed unaffected by the chilly temperature outside; it was as if I were standing in the sun in a tropical location, burning my skin hot with pain.

Gulping the thick saliva constricting my throat, I push the quilt away from me and sit straight, my back against the headboard, a groan escaping my lips.

I was sick of being surrounded by blame, remorse, and constant reminders of my past and carelessness, which gnawed away at my skin.

Without hesitation, I grabbed my phone from beside me and swiftly entered Aurora's phone number.

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