What Now ⇔ Muke ✓

[7] I'd feel safer with you

MICHAEL

Before my mum died, she would always celebrate holidays to the fullest. She would begin putting up Christmas decorations the day after Thanksgiving, and she would always make adorning the Christmas tree a huge event. I remember one time, after finally putting the last ornament on the tree, she handed me the glittery star and whispered in my ear, "Go on and put it on the top, sweetheart." I remember climbing this tiny ladder so I could reach the top of the tree. I was so excited, my body quivering with exhilaration. My fingers shook as I tried to place the star on the top, accidently pushing the tree and making the entire tree teeter. I yelped and my mother shrieked as the tree fell in a heap on the ground, the sound of glass ringing out into the air in ear-splitting atrociousness. I recall standing alone on the ladder, the glittery star still in my hand, staring down at the destruction I had caused and feeling my eyes swell up with tears. I was sure my mother would scream at me- at all the broken ornaments that I had caused. My heart was crushed into fragments, just like all the fragile pieces of glass scattering the hardwood flooring. Instead of screaming at me though, my mother let out a loud and joyous laugh, coming up behind me and wrapping her long arms around me. She lifted me effortlessly off the ladder and held me as we both stumbled back, landing on the couch in a fit of laughter. The tears on my cheeks dried as she kissed my head.

"Mikey," she had said. When I refused to look at her, looking instead at the crushed tree in shame, she nudged my left ear with her small nose and said again, "Mikey. Did you know it has always been a tradition in my family to break at least one ornament?"

This caught my young attention enough to turn around and look at her petite, beautiful face.

"Really?"

My mum had nodded, humming. "Yes. We dropped so many ornaments as we grew up that it eventually became a ritual thing. If we somehow had managed to put all the decorations on the tree without breaking one, we all chose one off the tree and crushed it ourselves. My father told us that it was good luck."

I listened intently, a small smile growing on my face. My father listened nearby in his chair, a fond smile on his face as well, as though he had heard this story a thousand times.

"So, you've got a lot of good luck coming your way." My mother had said, kissing my wet cheeks. We all then stood up and picked up the tree, standing it up once again and laughing when it remained crooked. We cleaned up the glass together and kissed the cuts it created on our skin, and then stood back and grinned like fools at our imperfect Christmas tree.

It's memories like these that make me wish I could fly back in time and live them again.

Instead, I wake up this morning with my father's scruffy face in my own, alcohol lacing his breath as he snarls at me that he is going to the bar out of town and to not bother him. He's never sober anymore. When he's sober he has to think, he has to remember mum and the disappointment of his son, and he gets drunk again. Sometimes I don't blame him. I suppose if I had a son like me I wouldn't want to think of him either. I listen to his heavy footsteps as he stumbles out of the house, slamming the door closed behind him. Silence fills the air once he is gone.

I grunt, pushing the sheets off me and standing up out of bed. I wobble over to the mirror, pulling and tugging on my hair until it appears acceptable. I then go to the bathroom and brush my teeth, hating the taste of my morning breath and replacing it with fresh mint.

Once I walk downstairs to retrieve some breakfast, I am welcomed by the sight of the entire first floor destroyed, the couch turned over and the mirror shattered, glass littering the ground, along with some broken beer bottles. I let out a tiny sigh.

My bare feet step over glass and walk over to the turned over couch. I grab the fabric of it and groan, using all my strength to turn it upright again. It takes a lot of muscle, and I am tempted to sit down on the furniture and rest. Instead, I force myself to bend over and pick up the little shards of glass, cautious as to prick myself. I've almost cleaned it all up when a particularly sharp slice of glass slashes a cut in my finger, causing a bubble of blood to spill over my skin.