Reasons to Live - a collection of flash fiction stories

Christmas Trees

Devon once told me about the daughter of a friend of his who had found a dead frog on the side of the road. The little girl had been allowed to perform a proper burial for the sad little creature. A small hole had been dug with a stick and tiny pebbles had been placed all around it. Upon setting the creature into its tomb, it suddenly kicked its feet, stunned but certainly not dead. The little girl threw her hands in the air, terrified, and began to scream, "Kill it!"

*

-Christmas Eve 1982-

I puff on the remainder of my cigarette. The smoke plums forth, creating a crooked halo around my head. I am imitating angels yet I know I am a fraud. I drink all day to numb what's coming ahead, the night, the rug burns on my knees. It's all I know. It's all I have ever known.

I shiver in my black leather jacket and kick at a nearby beer can with the toe of my boots. I nearly send my boot flying off since I always wear them two sizes too big.

I watch a Chevy slow down. Its headlights shine upon me like a spotlight. Perhaps in some other life, I could have been a superstar with real spotlights shining upon me. But I am here, living out my own drama one day at a time. As the Chevy nears I can see it's covered in rust giving its once lustrous burgundy paint job stains like it's got some sort of skin disorder. The man in the driver's seat smiles at me. He looks about forty-five, scraggly dirty blond hair, and wrinkles around his beautiful blue eyes. I see his hands resting on the steering wheel if he's hitched his fingers don't betray it. His smile deepens. I cannot help smiling back. With a jerk of his head, he invites me in and for the next hour or so, his touch becomes my home.

I smell the scent of his car's air-freshener, it is factory-made pine. I close my eyes, lean back on the leather upholstery of the car and pretend I am in the forest, somewhere in a woods full of Christmas trees and wishes. I take a deep breath and breathe it all in.

In my mind's eye, I can see his blue eyes traveling to every erratic part of me, to all the broken parts and all the ones I have stitched back together again. He does not seem to mind. When he is finished, he hands me ten dollars more than we had agreed upon and tells me to have a Merry Christmas or Happy Holidays or whatever I believe in 'cuz he gave up on God a long time ago and he ain't sure what to wish folks anymore. I tell him any good wish will do and he jerks his head in a quick nod. I never got his name. I never ask them for their names and I never tell them mine. I watch his Chevy drive away. He honks his horn twice as he turns around the corner. The last thing I see is the bumper sticker on his rusty ol' car flickering silvery as it catches a ray of streetlight, I AM CRAZY BUT I AM FREE. I always believed in the kindness of strangers, even if most of them ended up messing me up anyhow, I still believe there is goodness in people.

*

The money he gave me has been shoved into the pocket of my jeans roughly. Forty bucks, all fives. The bills feel uncomfortable, but I leave them like that. There is a comfort in knowing that I can buy some groceries now, even a few small presents for Christmas tomorrow. Maybe I'll even get a bottle or two of wine, but it'll be cheap wine. No matter how many sidewalk serenades I sing, I still won't ever be able to afford a bottle of something expensive, something French.

I once dreamed of being a poet, of having my name up in lights, of winning the Nobel prize. I once dreamed of security, happiness, salvation but that was all ten lifetimes ago.

When I arrive at our house, it is dark. Next year I'll ask Devon if we can put up a few Christmas lights, maybe a small reindeer or a twinkling snowman. I'll ask him next year. Outside it's begun to snow, by tomorrow morning the whole world will be white. A snowflake falls on my nose, I become cross-eyed trying to see it before it melts away.

I quietly slip inside the house. I dare not flip on a light switch and wake Devon up. I tiptoe to the bathroom and wash the night away. It is my second skin, I am a chameleon soul.

Devon feels warm when I nestle beside him. I hear him murmur my name in his sleep but he does not wake up. I smile. This smile is different though, much different, this smile is made up of real Christmas trees; it is made up of real dreams. I close my eyes and I see forests. I see Devon. I see hope.

© Christine Bottas. All rights reserved 2015-2018.